From Harvest to the Ark
by TheAmateur
Summary: The war lasted nearly thirty years. Only the best of the best had what it took to survive every one of them. That...or maybe it was just luck.
1. I Chapter 1: Diving in Headfirst

**Section I: Baptism

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Chapter One: Diving in Headfirst

**1500 hours, December 23, 2524 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

It was a hot day, today. Nothing new, really; _every_ day was a hot day on Harvest. There really wasn't much of a winter here—Harvest was only a third the size of Earth and most of the other colonies; as such, there weren't any clearly defined seasons. The result was a perpetual warm, moist climate. The "winter" felt like early autumn, autumn and spring both felt like summer, and summer felt like Satan's oven.

Right now, it felt like Satan's oven. Even though the Earth-based UNSC Calendar said it was late December, on Harvest it was in the middle of summer—the height of the growing season.

A fly buzzed through one of the bus's open windows and lighted atop the back of my neck, flitting around in its never-ending search for food. It had probably been flying for a very long time, crossing miles and miles of open ground, searching for something to eat.

I ended its journey with a well-aimed slap, brushing its still-twitching corpse off my neck and onto the ground. Served the little bastard right; he picked the _wrong_ soldier to mess with.

Okay, so maybe I _wasn't_ a soldier yet—not a _real_ one, anyway. The Harvest Colonial Militia had been created to handle internal security operations on the colony. Almost like the Secret Service of the old days. That was what I was going to be a part of, along withe everyone else on the bus

Harvest is a really laid back colony. It is arguably the breadbasket of the UNSC, or the 'Cornucopia of Epsilon Indi,' as the planetary agricultural operations AI, Mack, liked to call it. It is the seventeenth colony in the UNSC, and probably one of the hardest to get to; the nearest UNSC colony from Harvest was Madrigal, which was several weeks to a month away by slipspace travel.

The point is that nothing out of the ordinary really happens here. Sure, there's always been some measure of violence in the cities, but as colonies went Harvest was pretty crime-free. With that knowledge in mind, when I saw the flier on the streets of Gladsheim advertising the formation of the Harvest Colonial Militia, I went to the nearest recruiting station and volunteered, thinking that being a part of a colonial militia force on a colony where nothing ever happened would entail me to a nice life of quasi-relaxation. And to top it all off, I'd get to shoot a crapload of guns. Life couldn't get any better than that, right?

Wrong.

I slapped off another fly as it tried to go for my eye, but ended up missing and landing on my left cheek. The bus I was on was an older model, not dissimilar to the Mark IV transport JOTUNs used by Harvest's many farmers to transport equipment from Point A to Point B. This bus was essentially the same thing, only it had a makeshift roof welded to the top, and a solid rear, rather than a collapsible metal lattice.

We had all the windows down. It was our best way of combating the heat of southern Edda, where the Colonial Militia's training facility was located. Epsilon Indi, Harvest's sun, hung in the sky, blazing away at anything fortunate enough to be below it. A few white wisps hanging near the western horizon were the only clouds that disrupted the otherwise unbroken blue sky.

The bus I was on was making its way south down the Gladsheim Highway, cutting through an endless sea of rolling hills of wheat, grain, and countless other crops. The whole landscape looked like an ocean when the wind blew through, agitating the tall grass.

There were around seventy other people on the bus with me, crammed uncomfortably into the transport's limited amount of seats. We came from all over Harvest; Gladsheim, Utgard, Asgard, Tigard, Rhelmar, Oëlfurth, and the farmlands that covered most of the Edda supercontinent. We came from all over the planet, all of us brought to the capital of Utgard, located in the center of the continent. There, we were loaded onto this bus. We had made a stop in Gladsheim—the second-largest city on Harvest—and had been heading south along the highway ever since. It was a long drive.

We were going to be the Harvest Colonial Militia.

There were two predominant groups of us—there were the geezers; older gents; forty, fifty-year-olds who had served as part of the Harvest Police Force, or the emergency response/aid services. The rest—like me—were the babies. Young men who, for the most part, had come from Harvest's endless sea of farms. It was about an even split.

I thought it would probably balance out, though; the geezers had some measure of training and weapons experience, being part of the law enforcement agencies, while the babies would have physical strength and stamina, built up from a lifetime of working in the farms.

Me and a few other babies were an exception to this rule, however. I was an orphan. My father had been some sort of businessman, involved with the transportation of the JOTUNs—the machines, run by Mack, which performed a good deal of Harvest's agricultural labor. My mother had left my father soon after I was born…at least, that's what my social worker told me. My father had decided to go on vacation to the Hugin Sea up north…and then some crazy cocksucker who had had too much whiskey to drink decided to get behind the wheel of another car coming in the opposite direction. Both the drunk man and my father were dead before the paramedics reached the crash scene.

I was supposed to be in that car, too, only I had had a stomach virus the day of the vacation, so my father had left me in the care of a babysitter. I had been three years old. Ever since then I had drifted from shelter to shelter, foster home to foster home. None of them had ever been right for me, and I always ended up back on the streets.

Now, I was sixteen years old and on my way to become a militiaman. The social system had been more than happy to hand me off—one less potential troublemaker off the streets. I don't think the recruiters even bothered to check my age; the age cut-off is seventeen, and I am sixteen. I lied to them, told them I was seventeen, and they barely even glanced at my roster. There was that factor, and then there was the fact that recruiters these days knew better than to turn down a young piece of meat who was actually _volunteering_ for active duty. With the Insurrection still raging in the Epsilon Eridanus System, recruitment for the UNSC armed forces was at an all-time low. There were rumors of a draft being brought into play, but nothing had actually happened yet. Regardless, if a young man actually volunteered himself for active duty-if he looked and acted fit, and if he said he was old enough, the recruiters usually looked the other way when the recruits' true ages appeared on their datapads.

Hell, I also figured joining up with the Colonial Militia would probably make sure I never had to get shipped off-planet to fight and die in some other distant world. Sure, I may have been a social misfit these past few years, but I've never stopped loving Harvest. This colony really is a nice place to live.

"Hey, Junior," the man behind me—a tall, muscular, blond-haired man of around twenty—ribbed me in the back of my neck. "What are you doin' here? This party ain't for kids like you who probably don't even have hair on their balls yet."

I snorted with laughter, twisting around to face this man. "Well, the benevolent government of Harvest seems to disagree, otherwise I wouldn't have made it past my recruiter."

"How old are you, kid?"

I shrugged. "Old enough."

"Oh, lay off the kid, Dempsey," the man sitting next to the blonde youth grunted. This man was an older, heavyset fellow with a sweaty face, jet-black hair, and a pencil-thin mustache lining his upper lip. He was one of the former police constables who had joined the militia. I think his name was Carrol. John Carrol, or something like that.

"Both of you, _shut up_," a third man called out from across the aisle running down the center of the bus.

"Go fuck yourself, Stisen," Carrol grunted, settling back into his seat.

The rest of the bus ride continued in silence. Most of the recruits were sleeping or staring at the passing countryside. When the bus finally pulled to a stop in the gravel lot of a military-grade training compound, most of the recruits were still deep in their thoughts.

When the red-faced, black-haired man in the green-gray fatigues of the UNSC Marine Corps stormed up the bus's entry steps, he was faced with a busload of sleepy, bleary-eyed recruits who had no idea what was about to hit them.

"_Get off your sorry asses!_" the uniformed man screamed into the faces of the men in the first row of seats, his voice accentuated by a heavy Irish brogue. "You get your sorry asses off this bus, or I will have the whole lot of you pushing 'em out until you start weeping bullets! _Move it, move it, MOVE IT!_"

I sprang up out of my seat and into the aisle, along with every other recruit who knew what was good for him. At the uniformed man's behest, we quickly filed out of the bus two by two, spilling out onto the gravel lot. We milled about aimlessly, pausing to stretch our cramped muscles and get used to walking around.

That didn't last very long. Another man in uniform was waiting for us outside the bus. This man was tall and dark-skinned. He had a cigarette hanging lazily from the corner of his mouth, its end glowing bright orange as he drew upon it. He was clean-shaven, wearing a green sergeant's cap and reflective golden wraparound sunglasses which obscured his eyes. Like the Irishman on the bus, the dark-skinned man wore green-gray fatigues which had three stripes and a rocker with crossed M6J carbines in the center sewed into the sleeves—the insignia of a UNSC Marine Corps staff sergeant.

I looked more closely at this man. He was definitely a marine, and one who had seen a lot. You could tell just by their look how much they had probably been through. They always had the same grim expression, their eyes usually dull, staring out into space. This guy must have been through a _lot_. He didn't have the thousand-yard-stare, but he certainly was not laid back. The name stitched into the upper-right section of his uniform read 'Johnson'.

"Form up, _form up!_" the second sergeant, Johnson, shouted. "Lollygagging time is over, children! Form up into six columns of twelve before Staff Sergeant Byrne and I decide to start frying some greenie farmer-boy brains!" To back his threat up, Johnson drew a metal baton from his belt and flicked an unseen switch, causing the baton to hum and vibrate with energy.

I instinctively knew that I did _not_ want that sucker coming anywhere near me, so I was one of the first to spring into line. It really wasn't a line at first—people just started lining up behind _other_ people wherever they stood, resulting in a haphazard smattering of recruits all over the lot.

Sergeant Byrne, the staff sergeant who had yelled at us on the bus, clambered down through the transport's double doors and joined us on the gravel lot. He wielded a power baton identical to the one the black sergeant was holding.

Byrne jabbed one kid in the stomach with his baton, sending him sprawling. "How the fuck are you gobshites supposed to safeguard your colony when you don't even know how to form a simple formation? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph; we should swap you hopeless duds out with a kindergarten class; _six-year-olds_ could do better than you!"

The two sergeants herded the stragglers into line, jabbing and zapping recruits until we were finally formed up into a reasonable rectangle.

"Everyone face this way and follow Staff Sergeant Byrne to the parade ground!" Johnson barked.

All seventy-two of us simultaneously swiveled around to the left to where Sergeant Byrne was standing.

The Irishman made us march in place for at least ten minutes until he was satisfied that all of us knew our rights from our lefts. After warning to give latrine duty to the men who fell out of step first, the Irishman started marching us forward across the gravel lot. Johnson, the dark-skinned sergeant, brought up the rear, twirling his baton through his fingers, waiting for some poor schmuck in the back to lag behind.

We marched past what looked like an operations building and onto a mown green lawn on the other side. This lawn was surrounded by the various buildings of the compound—the Quonset hut, the armory, the rec center, the two barracks at the south side, the mess hall, etc.

Two flagpoles were erected at one end of the parade field; the higher one bearing the flag of the UNSC, and the shorter one bearing the colonial flag of Harvest.

The two staff sergeants marched us into the center of the parade field and stopped us. We all turned to our right and found ourselves facing the HQ building. We stood there for close to fifteen minutes, sweltering under Epsilon Indi, all of us too scared of what the sergeants would do to us if we dared to break formation.

After those fifteen minutes, the door to the operations building was pushed open from the inside and a third uniformed man stepped out. This man had was dressed similarly to his sergeants, but he also bore the insignia of a UNSC Captain. He had a Sweet William cigar clamped between his teeth. He was well-tanned with salt-and-pepper hair trimmed down to a military buzz-cut. I figured he was a little north of fifty years old, but that did not seem to affect his physical health. He looked like he could take on any one of us single-handed.

That was when my gaze dropped down to his right side. Instead of an arm, there was only an empty sleeve that was pinioned to the side of the Captain's shirt. This man had obviously _also_ seen some action. I forced my gaze away from the Captain's empty right side; I didn't want to be caught staring.

The Captain traded nods with the two sergeants and stepped forward to address us. As he did so, the two sergeants retired behind the Captain, patiently waiting for their turn with us. A fourth man—thin, short, pale, and blond-haired—also emerged from the operations center and stood with the sergeants, exchanging discreet words with them as the Captain spoke. I didn't pay any attention to him; my focus was fixated on the one-armed Captain.

"Gentlemen," the Captain spoke to us, "My name is Captain Ponder, and I am in charge of the Harvest Colonial Militia. I am in charge of _you_. You are now the property of me and my sergeants. Follow your instructions, never let your guard down, and respect your brothers. If you can do that, you all will pull through this training regimen just fine. We are going to test you—physically and mentally. If you can meet the challenge, if you can conquer it…then I will be proud to make soldiers out of you. It is the job of my sergeants to ensure that this happens. Does anyone have any questions?"

"Yeah," one of the recruits in the row in front of me raised his hand. I could hear the man trying to suppress a snicker. "When do we eat?"

Captain Ponder gave the Irishman a slight nod after hearing the question. Staff Sergeant Byrne unsheathed his power baton and quick-stepped his way over to the smartass recruit who had spoken, delivering a crushing blow to the young man's stomach. As the recruit doubled over in pain, Byrne grasped his collar and hauled him back upright, holding him by the lapels of his shirt.

"You eat when we _say_ you eat," the Irish sergeant growled. "You sleep when we _say_ you sleep, you shit when we _say_ you shit, you piss when we _say_ you piss, and you breathe when we _say_ you breathe; do you understand that, cuntlips? Sound off!"

"Sir…yes, sir…" the kid managed to sputter.

"I said _sound off!_" Byrne practically screamed into the man's ear.

"_Sir, yes sir!_" the kid screamed right back.

Sergeant Byrne released the recruit and returned to his place next to Johnson.

"Anymore questions?" Captain Ponder asked innocently. No one raised their hands. Not a peep. The Captain smiled. "Good. I think you're going to have a good time here, gentlemen. I'm going to turn you back over to my sergeants, now. Good luck, and I shall see you bright and early tomorrow morning."

With that, the Captain saluted us, turned on his heel, and vanished back into the operations building, leaving us alone with the staff sergeants and the pale man in the blue fatigues.

Sergeant Johnson stepped forward and pulled out a datapad, probably accessing our files. The dark-skinned sergeant cleared his throat and began calling out names. Whenever someone's name was called, that person would shift uncomfortably; no one knew what would happen if you were chosen.

Johnson called out a total of thirty-six names. Mine wasn't one of them. "If your name was called, then you are in 1st Platoon," he said. "Form up in three rows of twelve over to the left! If your name was _not_ called, then you are in 2nd Platoon with Staff Sergeant Byrne! Form up in your appropriate ranks off to the right! _Fall out!_"

There were a few brief moments of chaos as we scrambled to join our new units. Once we formed up into our platoon, Sergeant Byrne organized us further into three squads of twelve recruits each. I was in the second squad, Bravo Squad. Our abbreviation was 2/B—the 'B' representing 'Bravo Squad' and the '2' representing '2nd Platoon'. Our designated squad leader was John Carrol, the older constable who had sat behind me on the bus. Dempsey, the blonde kid who had ribbed me on the bus, was also in Bravo Squad.

Stisen, the constable who had told both me and Dempsey to shut up during the busride, became the leader of Alpha Squad, or 2/A, and Habel—a thin, lithe former SWAT operative—was appointed the leader of Charlie Squad, or 2/C.

"I am Staff Sergeant Nolan Byrne," the Irishman finally said to us, addressing us formally. "You all are here to become Harvest Colonial Militia. I am here to ensure that you become the absolute very _best_ I can possible make you. I can guarantee you that you _are_ going to hate me. I am not here for you to love. The road ahead will be a very rough one, but you _will_ finish it. For the next few months, I will be your worst nightmare, but you _will_ thank me for it in the end. Until then, recruits, I bid you all good luck."

When the two sergeants finished talking to us, they introduced the pale man in the blue fatigues, identifying him as Petty Officer First Class Jacob Healy. He was going to be our medic, treating any recruit or other staffer who would get hurt in the days ahead. If there was anyone in this camp who we were going to love during our training, it was going to be him. I had a bad feeling that I was going to be seeing him a lot in the future.

By the time we were finished, Epsilon Indi was already sinking below the western horizon. The shadows of the compound buildings were extenuated to many times their heights as Epsilon Indi sank behind them, striping the parade field with shadows.

"Alright, maggots, fall out and report to your barracks!" Staff Sergeant Byrne called out.

"1st Platoon in the left barrack, 2nd in the right!" Johnson added.

I gladly relaxed, letting my hands fall down to my sides, and turned to the left, following the flow of human beings to the barracks at the south side of the compound. The recruits in Johnson's platoon broke off to the left, ducking into their barracks, while those in my platoon filed into the other one.

Inside, the barracks were filled with bunks. They were two-bunk beds, one bunk fixed on top of another. There were eighteen of these double-bunks lining each wall, each bunk having two footlockers set on the ground at the foot of the bottom ones.

I grabbed the bottom bunk of the fourth bunk down on the left side, but Dempsey pushed me out and took it for himself. "Seniority gets lower bunks, Junior," the blond-haired twenty-year-old sneered.

I refrained from muttering under my breath and instead grabbed the bunk above Dempsey, not willing to give way quite yet. "If I end up wetting my bed at night, you'll be the first to know," I said back to Dempsey. That shut him up.

Staff Sergeant Byrne walked down the aisle that ran between the bunks on either side of the barracks, instructing us to open our footlockers. Inside was a razor and mirror, a toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, bodywash and shampoo for showers, and neatly-folded olive-green militia fatigues, along with similarly-colored underwear. Byrne then made all of us strip down to nothing.

"Any of you feel uncomfortable with your balls hanging out for everyone to see?" the Irishman chuckled. "Well, you better start getting used to it; personal space is the first thing you are going to be tossing out the window here."

At Byrne's approval, we slipped into our green-brown pattern boxer shorts and lay down on our bunks for the night.

"Enjoy the night," the Irishman grunted. "Tomorrow, the real deal starts. Good night, ladies." The Staff Sergeant turned and took a few paces towards the open door, but when no one replied to his 'good night' he halted and turned back around. "I said _Good Night, Ladies!_" he barked, raising his voice to a more dangerous volume.

"_Good night, Staff Sergeant!_" we all chorused in unison, out of reflex more than anything. I guess that was what it was going to be like in the future; responding to the sergeants' orders out of reflex rather than actually taking time to think about them. It made sense, I guess. In a firefight, you wouldn't have time to descry all the little details of an order when you had bullets flying past your ear.

"That's more like it," Byrne chuckled as he ducked out the door. The lights in the barracks shut off as the door closed.

When the sergeant left, the recruits began to speak. Some muttered to themselves, others groaned and complained, and others made small-talk, laughing with one another. I kept quiet, content to lay back on my bunk and listen to everyone else. I rested with my hands behind my head, not bothering to pull up the covers.

This was definitely _not_ what I had had in mind when I marched into the recruiting station in Gladsheim. I let out a weary sigh as I started to think about the long months ahead. What the hell had I gotten myself into?

As I lay on my bunk, my peace was disturbed by someone jostling my shoulder. I glanced over and came face-to-face with Carrol, my squad leader. "Carrol?" I asked.

"Hey, kid," Carrol said, "You're in my squad from here on out, and I figure it'll be a good idea to start learning everyone's names. I've already gotten most of the other guys, but I don't have yours yet. I'm _not_ gonna call you 'Junior' for the next eight months."

"It's Garris," I replied, reaching down from my bunk to shake Carrol's hand. "Alley Garris."

* * *

_Welcome back, Halo readers! To start off, I'll probably be splitting my time between this story and another one of mine, so odds are that my updates will be either not as frequent, or irregular. But then again, they have always been irregular, so that's not much of a change. After writing a seventy-chapter Halo story (Good ole' Survivors of Gamma Company) I'm really surprised that I still have the willpower to keep on writing Halo-that last one really drained me. But I guess all I needed was a break and a breath of fresh air._

_In Survivors of Gamma Company, I touched upon a possible backstory for Alley Garris when he briefly spoke to Alex about how he had been on Installation 04. He was interrupted before he could actually begin explaining any of his backstory, though, and I never really got back to it later on in the story. Now, he gets the spotlight._

_This is going to be a fun story, I think. No more Insurrectionists, no more mysterious splinter groups or unknown aliens with galaxy-dominating plans, and no more Spartans, for now. I'm going back to the good old-school Marines vs. Covenant. I miss those bastards. And I've missed all you bastards, too.  
_

_-TheAmateur_


	2. I Chapter 2: Second Thoughts?

Chapter Two: Second Thoughts?

**December 24, 2524 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

I was standing on top of a tall spire of rock that was jutting up from the middle of a sea. Mammoth waves pounded against my little piece of rock; wind and rain bit at my face, blinding me. Thunder began to clap as I tried to shield my face from Mother Nature's onslaught. The thunder would not stop; it kept on booming and crashing in a rapid, almost rhythmic beat. It was a maddening thunder, inside your head as much as it was outside of it. No matter what you did to try to block it out, you would always be able to hear it, crashing...

"_Junior! Wake the fuck up before the Sarge turns your ass inside-out!_" a hazy voice whisper-shouted somewhere out of the raging sky.

The urgent hiss was what actually woke me up. The sounds of the raging sea grew dull and the wild vista of the storm grew blurry and fell into darkness. The only thing that remained was the thunder, and the enveloping darkness was quickly bisected by the view of the 2nd Platoon barracks ceiling as I cracked open my eyelids.

Lyons, the short, brown-haired, plump man who slept in the upper bunk next to mine was gesticulating madly for me to get up out of my bunk.

I now realized that the 'thunder' of my dream had not been thunder at all. Staff Sergeant Byrne, clad in a dripping rain poncho, was making his way down the aisle in the middle of our barracks. Under his right arm he held a metal trash can which he had inverted so that the bottom of the can faced front. With his free hand he held a serving spoon from the mess hall, with which he pounded mercilessly upon the trash can, jolting recruits out of their beds.

I tumbled out of my bunk and somehow landed on my feet, hurrying out into the aisle to stand at attention.

A steady pattering was reverberating throughout the barracks as rain hit the roof and walls from outside. The thick rain clouds, as well as the fact that it was only 0400 hours, resulted in it being still very dark outside. The windows were black rectangles streaking with rainwater running from the roof down the walls to the ground, reflected by the internal lights of 2nd Platoon's barracks.

"Get up, get up; let's move it, gobshites!" Byrne exclaimed; his Irish brogue thickening as his shouting intensified. "Innie commandoes could've filled all you worthless cumbuckets full o' holes five times over in the time it took you to get your patty-asses out of your beds!"

I strained my spine to stand up even straighter than I had been standing before as the staff sergeant passed me. The Irishman gave me a sidelong glance, eyeing me up. His fierce gray eyes seemed to pierce right through me before he moved on and gazed at Dempsey, moving on down the line.

"We're going on a little run, girlie-girls," Sergeant Byrne announced as he made his way back to the barracks doors. "Fall out and form up outside!"

"Sir, we aren't dressed-" one of the older recruits started to say, but Sergeant Byrne quickly thrust his power-baton into the constable's gut, rendering the rest of the recruit's sentence moot.

"My God, you're right!" Byrne gave a mock gasp, sheathing his power baton as he spoke. "_None_ of you are dressed yet! How about that; I nearly made you all go out and run without letting you get dressed. Tell you what…I'm a strong believer in Democracy; I'll put this up to a vote: which one of you sods thinks we should spend the rest of the day in this warm, comfortable building?"

No one raised their hands. We all wanted to spend the rest of the day inside, obviously, but none of us were willing to take the risk of pissing off the sergeant even more. The Irishman looked like a devious bastard, capable of reducing any of us to quibbling mounds of jelly if he so chose. I didn't want to unleash that, and neither did anyone else.

"Looks like Democracy prevails again," Staff Sergeant Byrne proclaimed triumphantly, kicking open the barracks door, inviting us to step outside. The wind of the rainstorm outside swirled through the opening, blowing through the barracks. It was freezing.

I fell out of formation and hightailed it out of the door after my fellow recruits, only to get herded back into formation back on the parade field. Sergeant Johnson was busy hauling 1st Platoon out of their barracks as well, and the whole lot of us converged on the parade ground.

The wind and rain had free reign out here; were it not for the compound's lights, it would have been impossible to see further than a yard or two into the darkness. The rain soaked us to the bone in less than a minute. Depending on the wind, it would either soak us from above, or it would fly right into our faces. The repetitive _ping_ of the flag ropes banging against the flagpoles also added more din to the storm.

I knew flash storms like these were not uncommon in the South of Edda. There was something about the geography of this area, combined with the weather patterns of the Munin Sea, that resulted in somewhat common flash floods. They could not compare with the wild, prolonged weather on Sigma Octanus IV, where rainstorms could last for weeks, but these Harvest storms still did not make my life any easier. Especially now.

"We're goin' for a little jog, farmer-boys!" Johnson shouted, his voice easily cutting through the roar of the storm. "You will remain in loose formation for the duration of our run! If you get lost along the way, then you better hitch a ride on Helios's sun chariot to get back to camp; I expect _all_ of you in formation on the parade field in time for breakfast!"

Byrne pulled a flashlight from his belt and clicked it on. It had a powerful beam, one which cut through the rain and mist of pre-dawn morning. Johnson had one as well. Both sergeants moved to the heads of their platoons and got them running in step for a few minutes to warm up. After the brief warmup, we set off.

Johnson's 1st Platoon took the lead, jogging off into the pitch black beyond the camp perimeter, following a semi-prepared trail that cut through the grain fields, only partially illuminated by Johnson's flashlight.

Staff Sergeant Byrne kept us in the compound for another five minutes before he, too, got us moving, taking the same path as 1st Platoon.

I don't know how long we rain. I lost track of time, and I had no way of judging distance based on landmarks; I couldn't see a damn thing through the darkness and rain. We all ran and ran, and ran some more, following Sergeant Byrne's bobbing light up ahead like lost souls trying to reach the afterlife.

There was no sunrise. The rainclouds were too thick for us to witness Epsilon Indi's grand entrance into today. It didn't start getting bright until long after the sun's actual rise, and even then it was only a dull glow in the east as some of the black clouds began to turn to a shade of dark gray.

I became aware of shapes in the darkness now. The waving fields of wheat and grain had been replaced by trees somewhere along the way. The tall, twisted silhouettes were caught up in a macabre dance, buffeted and thrown about by the fierce storm winds even more than us. Sometime I would hear the snap of a cracking branch, and I would have a split-second to pray that it did not fall on me before the wind took away that vestige of a thought.

It had grown bright enough to see what was around you after a while, but the rain still obscured your vision. I could not even feel Mother Nature's cold shower anymore; the burning in my lungs, chest, and legs was too great. I had no idea how much longer we were going to have to run; that knowledge--or lack of knowledge, really--more than anything else, began to sap me.

Recruits all around me were beginning to get sloppy. It started with a stumble here, or a minor trip-up there, but now recruits were falling into each other and performing painful face-plants into the muddy path in front of them.

A lifetime spent in the streets of Gladsheim had taught me speed and the endurance to sustain that speed over a long period of time. I had thought I was in reasonable shape.

Wrong again.

The only constant in our sea of misery was that damned light up ahead, bobbing up and down in its never-ending, robotic rhythm. How could the Staff Sergeant _possibly_ go on for this long?

Epsilon Indi eventually brightened the sky just enough to be able to kind of see through the rain when we reached our destination; a small, secluded beach that was closed in by sheer cliff faces on both sides. The Munin Sea, spurred on by the storm, vented her fury on those cliff faces, sending wave after wave pounding against their cold, unyielding faces.

We would have been a sight to see, had anyone else been on the beach. Thirty-six mostly-naked men, clad in nothing but their skivvies and boots, half-jogging, half-crawling into the beach.

1st Platoon was nowhere in sight. They must have gone back on another path, because we never passed them.

Sergeant Byrne made his way over to a cluster of rocks and heaved one of them aside, revealing a dark-green, metallic footlocker which had obviously been placed there ahead of time, in anticipation for this event. The sergeant opened the container and pulled out two bottles of water.

Thirty-six heads, including mine, turned as one towards the Staff Sergeant, utterly mesmerized by the liquid gold in his hands. Those water bottles were our Holy Grails. I was tempted to rush the sergeant and seize the bottles from his hands. Judging by the murmuring from the others, I wasn't alone in that sentiment.

Staff Sergeant Byrne, sensing the shift in our moods, drew his power baton and upped it to its highest intensity; enough juice to knock someone into next week. "All of you will form up into two lines," the Irish sergeant ordered us. "You will receive a bottle of water, but _none_ of you are to drink from them! Anyone who tries to cut, anyone who tries to push ahead, and anyone who tries to grab straight from me or the locker gets a dose of lightning," he warned, waving the baton for emphasis.

I was pretty much shoved to the very back of the line. Being the youngest of the bunch really sucks, sometimes. Carrol, my squad leader, was right next to me in the other line. He offered me a weary nod, but had nothing more to give.

I felt bad for him. He was a somewhat heavyset man with an expanding paunch. The run would have been harder on people like him that it had been on me and the other babies. I couldn't tell how much he was sweating because of the rain cascading down his face.

The two lines slowly shuffled forward as Byrne handed out the pre-set bottles of water two-by-two. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Carrol and I were the only ones left. Sergeant Byrne handed us our water without a second glance.

I was just starting to work the cap off when Sergeant Byrne suddenly bellowed, "_Form up!_ Two rows, staggered lines!"

Wearily, we all obeyed our orders. We formed two long rows of eighteen recruits each and staggered them so that the men in the second row were right behind the gaps between every two men in the first row.

"Bottles on the ground in front of you!" Byrne bellowed next. When we all dropped our water bottles, Byrne walked up and down our rows, carefully looking at each bottle. He passed over me without saying anything, much to my relief.

When he got to Dempsey, however, the story changed. Dempsey had taken a small drink out of his water bottle right after he had received it, and so the level of water in his bottle was noticeably lower than everyone else's.

Byrne noticed this as well. The Irishman crouched down and snatched it up, shaking it in Dempsey's face. "What is this, recruit?"

Dempsey looked at a loss for words, but he didn't get a chance to say much. Sergeant Byrne slapped him on the back of his head, shouting, "I asked you a question, scrotum-cheeks; _what is this?_"

"It's…it's a bottle of water, sir," Dempsey panted.

"_Incorrect_, recruit!" Byrne screeched, seizing Dempsey by the color and pushing him down to the sand. "Push 'em out until I say stop!"

We all looked on impassively as Dempsey started to perform his push-ups.

"Recruit Dempsey seems to think that this is a water bottle; he is incorrect," Byrne exclaimed, turning to face the rest of us. "_This_," he shook the bottle, "is a partially _finished_ water bottle! You all were ordered _not_ to drink from your water bottles, correct?" the Irishman asked us.

"Sir, yes sir!" we all chorused in reply.

Sergeant Byrne started to shake Dempsey's bottle. The swooshing of the water and the bubbles could be heard by all of us. "Then _why_ do I hear empty spaces when I shake it like so?"

None of us could answer.

"None of you were supposed to drink from your bottles, _none_ of you; that was my order," Sergeant Byrne reminded us. "Because Recruit Dempsey has taken a drink from his water, my orders have been disobeyed by _all_ of you!"

The Irishman went on to order us to pick up our bottles. We complied uncertainly, holding our bottles out in front of us. As we did so, Dempsey faltered, taking a moment to pause in his onslaught of push-ups.

"I don't recall anyone telling you to stop, jelly-dick!" Byrne screamed at him, planting a boot between my blond-haired squadmate's shoulderblades. Dempsey groaned with exhaustion and struggled to continue with his punishment while Byrne returned his attention to us. "Caps off!" the sergeant shouted.

We twisted the caps of our water bottles caps off and waited to drink, staring at the water inside with near-animalistic fervor.

Then Byrne ordered us to upend our bottles and pour them out into the sand. When we hesitated, he drew his baton and shocked the man nearest to him, knocking the recruit out cold. "I said _empty your bottles!_"

I was the first to turn my bottle upside-down, watching its contents spill away. It would have been dramatic to say that I felt a depression settle in my gut, but it was not far from the truth. Something died inside me, watching all that water spill away, never to be drunk by the likes of me.

Staff Sergeant Byrne saw me empty my bottle first before everyone else followed suit. "Congratulations, Recruit Garris, you seem to understand me better than your mates. Perhaps you should help educate your peers in the future."

"Yes, sir!" I replied as loud as I could, though my voice was hoarse and raw from the absence of water. Thirst.

"If one person disobeys an order that applies to the entire platoon, then the entire platoon has disobeyed that order!" Byrne said to us. "Either _everyone_ succeeds, or _no one_ does. Remember that, girls."

Byrne had someone pick up the recruit whom he had shocked unconscious, then he formed us back up into our previous formation and sent us back onto the trail. We ran all the way back to the training compound…I don't even know how long we had been out. Most of us were half-delirious by the time we stumbled back onto the parade field.

Doc Healy, the young Navy squid who was serving as our medical officer, looked horrified as we made our way back into formation. I could only imagine what I looked like; weary, exhausted, soaked to the bone, windswept, dying from thirst—the list went on.

I saw the Doc exchange a few words with Staff Sergeant Byrne. I had no way of knowing what was said between the two men, but it seemed that Byrne's response was not to Healy's liking, as when the staff sergeant turned around to address us, the Doc had an expression of extreme dissatisfaction on his face. However, Healy, instead of arguing further with the staff sergeant, moved off and headed across the greens to the mess hall, ducking inside.

The smell of breakfast wafted outside through the rain and made its way into our nostrils. I went weak at the knees as I smelled it; pancakes, bacon and sausage. I had to spread my feet out a bit to keep myself from swaying.

As I stood there, trying to imagine how much better breakfast would taste, rather than smell, Captain Ponder emerged from the HQ building. He gave Sergeant Byrne a quick salute, which the Staff Sergeant returned. The Captain then turned to us. "Good morning, recruits. Did you men enjoy your morning jog?"

"Yes, sir," we all replied with varying amounts of enthusiasm.

Captain Ponder raised an eyebrow. He didn't look convinced. "Staff Sergeant Byrne, your men do not sound like they enjoyed their run," he said to the Irishman.

"No, sir, they do not," Byrne snarled.

"Perhaps we should have them run it again?" Captain Ponder suggested. "To help them appreciate it fully?"

"I don't think eight kilometers did the trick, Captain," Byrne shrugged. "Perhaps I'll take 'em out onto the highway and run 'em all the way up to the Bifrost and back."

"Let's be sure, first," Ponder smiled lightly, turning back to face us. "Did you men enjoy your morning jog?"

"_Sir, yes sir!_" we all shouted, loud enough so that Sergeant Byrne didn't even ask us to repeat ourselves, as he had done so many times already. Maybe we were all finally starting to learn something.

"Maybe I was wrong, Sergeant," Captain Ponder shrugged. "You boys hungry?"

We all answered in the affirmative; again, loud enough so that Byrne did not ask us to repeat ourselves.

"Well, you've certainly worked for it," Ponder observed. "However, you are _not_ setting one toe inside of my mess hall until you are nice and dry. Sergeant Byrne, see to it."

"Aye, sir," Byrne replied, saluting the Captain as he stepped forward to retake control of us.

"Have a good day, gentlemen," the Captain nodded to us, turning around and following Doc Healy into the mess hall.

"You worthless lice are not going to enter the dining hall looking like you are right now," Staff Sergeant Byrne grunted to us, eyeing us up and down. "Get back to your barracks and put on your fatigues. You will be dismissed for breakfast when I am satisfied that you are ready for it."

"_Sir, yes sir!_"

"_Fall out!_"

We all broke formation and sprinted across the greens, through the rain, and back into our barracks. We piled in through the door, only to find that all of our footlockers had been opened and overturned, their contents scattered all over the floor. Our fatigues, our tickets into the mess hall, were thrown all over the place—on bunks, in the windows, on the ceiling fans; _everywhere_. The toiletries were also similarly scattered.

We couldn't just grab _any_ shirt or set of pants and pull them on; all of our fatigues had our names stitched into them. Wearing someone else's fatigues would incur the Wrath of Byrne once more.

It took us over ten minutes to sort out everyone's fatigues, and then another five or so to get fully clothed, ponchos and all. By the time Sergeant Byrne okayed us and sent us on our way to the mess hall, breakfast was nearly over. We had two minutes to grab our trays, make a beeline for the food counter, and get loaded up. That took at least a minute and a half, leaving us less than a minute to find a table and scarf down as much grub as we possibly could. I was faintly aware of the recruits from 1st Platoon jeering at us as we rushed, but I really didn't care. All that mattered was getting food and water. I was delirious.

I didn't even take any silverware; I just tore right into my pancakes, bacon, and sausage, grabbing handfuls of them and shoving them down my throat, breaking the rhythm by taking gulps of water to wash it all down. I still had half a tray of grub left when Sergeant Johnson stepped into the mess hall, ordering us to fall out and report to the armory.

We all stood up at once and filed out towards the door, leaving our trays for the kitchen staff to clean up. Most of the guys in my platoon were swearing and cursing under their breath, trying to down one last scrap of food before they were torn away from their trays.

I staggered out through the mess hall door, my stomach still growling with barely sated hunger, my thirst from the morning run still not quenched. For the second time since I had stepped off the bus yesterday, I heard that voice inside my head asking me: _What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Garris?_


	3. I Chapter 3: Merry Christmas

Chapter Three: Merry Christmas

**December 25, 2524 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

_This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My rifle is my best friend. I must master it as I master my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than the enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will…_

I went over the words of the Rifleman's Creed in my mind as I stepped into the armory. I had to have the whole damn thing memorized by tonight; it was going to be our evening prayer before we went to bed, and anyone who fouled up would get Byrne's personal attention, and rule number one of surviving in this place was to never, _ever_ be the object of Sergeant Byrne's personal attention.

I shuffled forward in line up to the weapons counter. Staff Sergeant Johnson, who had taken up the post behind the counter, gave me a quick glance, cross-referenced my name in a datapad that he was holding, and handed me an M6J carbine, butt-first. I accepted the weapon, holding it against my chest. A handful of other recruits received M6Js as well, but the majority of the platoon was given MA5 assault rifles.

We were not wearing any type of armor with a magnetic weapons strip running down our backs, so our rifles had leather straps which we could use to sling over our shoulders.

When we got our weapons, we also received helmets and rifle bags which contained ammunition for our weapons, all of which weighed a good amount. We also received standard-issue canteens to carry our water, probably our most useful piece of gear. When we were bundled back outside, Sergeant Byrne led us back into the barracks while Johnson took his platoon out onto the Gladsheim Highway for an afternoon march.

Back in our barracks, we all sat down on top of our footlockers. I lay my rifle down on the ground beside me and listened to Sergeant Byrne as he started to speak.

"This," Byrne held up an assault rifle of his own, turning it around for all of us to see, "is a standard-issue UNSC military-grade MA5 assault rifle, series B; and _this_," the Irishman held up a carbine in his other hand, "is an M6-variant mid-range carbine, series J. You are going to learn about your weapon, you are going to know it, and you are going to love it. These rifles are going to be your friends, fuck-buddies, and Gods for the duration of your service in the armed forces."

I gave my rifle a curious sidelong glance as Byrne spoke. Could that hunk of metal really end up becoming everything Byrne said it would? I doubted it. Nothing would ever happen on Harvest that would require extensive use of weapons. Still, if Byrne wanted us to become close to our weapons, and not doing so would probably incur his wrath, I had no problem with complying. If we didn't fear the consequences of not getting close to our weapons, then, damn it all, we were going to fear _him_.

"All of you have either the MA5 or the M6J," Sergeant Byrne continued. "This was based on the firearms live-ammo test you underwent with your recruiters! If you have the M6J, it is because you actually seem to know how to aim at the thing you're trying to hit! If you have an MA5, it is because you probably didn't know one end of the rifle from the other. To make up for it, we've given you a weapon that simply pumps more lead through the air, thus increasing your chances of ruining your enemy's day!"

I had an M6J carbine. I had thought I had done an okay job when I had shot the targets at the recruiting office, but nothing special, especially considering the fact that I had never fired a gun before in my life. Obviously, someone in the up-and-up seemed to think differently.

"Your rifles are extensions of your will, mind, consciousness, and body…but they are tools as well," Byrne instructed us. The Irishman pulled a chair over and sat down in front of the barracks entrance so that everyone could see him. "And tools require maintenance and careful supervision. You must master your rifles, both inside and out."

Staff Sergeant Byrne then proceeded to lay his MA5 and the M6J down onto the floor in front of him and field-strip them. For the next half-hour or so, the Irishman showed us all of the interlocking pieces and parts that made up the rifle. He took the rifles apart and put them back together again in less than half a minute. To him it was as routine as breathing.

"You there, Critchley," Byrne pointed to one of the older men further on down the line. "You served in the SWAT forces in Utgard?"

"Yes, sir," Critchley promptly replied. "Eight years."

"Demonstrate for everyone how exactly to clear a jam," Byrne ordered the older man.

"Yes, sir," Critchley said again. He rose to his feet, smoothing down his bushy gray beard, and stood in the center of the aisle. He held an M6J as well, though the bolt mechanism of the M6J was nearly identical to the MA5, so his demonstrations still applied to everyone. As the older SWAT veteran started to go through the process of clearing a weapons jam, I saw Dempsey give a slight yawn from the corner of my eye.

Sergeant Byrne saw it as well. "Are we boring you, recruit?" the Irishman asked, his voice deadly quiet.

Dempsey swore under his breath, catching his yawn too late. "No, sir," he replied in a resigned tone.

"Did you get enough sleep last night?"

"Yes, sir-"

"Then _why_ do you feel the sudden urge to sabotage my training at every step and turn, twinkle-toes? I thought you would have learned your lesson on the beach when you cost yourself and your fellow recruits their much-deserved water, but evidently not…" Byrne leaped to his feet and quick-stepped his way down the aisle to Dempsey. I made myself as small as possible as the Irishman stepped past me. He reached down and seized Dempsey's rifle, manipulating the loading bold and pulling the trigger once. The gun gave a dull, off-sounding _snick_. "You rifle has just jammed, twinkle-toes!" he exclaimed. "Clear it!"

"Sir, I-"

"I said _clear it!_"

"Yes, sir!" Dempsey set to work, his hands a frantic blur as he began to clear the weapon jam in his MA5. I thought he was doing a good job, at least until Staff Sergeant Byrne started hitting him.

Byrne began slapping Dempsey up the back of his head, effectively ruining his concentration and preventing him from carrying out his task. "I ordered you to un-jam your weapon, recruit; do you have short-term memory loss? Have you forgotten your orders already?"

"Sir, no sir!" Dempsey sputtered, still fumbling with his rifle.

"Then why isn't your rifle ready to fire yet, recruit? You are getting overrun and shot every second you waste making a jackass out of yourself!" Byrne bellowed, keeping up his rhythmic slapping of Dempsey's head.

"Sir, I-" Dempsey stammered, "Sir, I can't do it if you-"

"If I what?" Byrne interrupted, not relenting. "You can't clear a weapons block while only getting slapped on that morass you call a head? Is that too distracting? Well, _is it?_"

Dempsey mumbled something in the affirmative.

"Then how in the name of Christ's Holy Left Testicle are you going to clear a weapons jam, or even _reload_, when you have fuckin' grenades going off in your ear, huh?" Byrne snapped. "How are you going to do that? If simple distractions are going to result in you clamming up like this, perhaps you should consider getting another goddamn job!"

Dempsey said nothing. Byrne grunted and stopped hitting the young recruit. He paused for a moment, and then turned right towards me. I looked into his stormy gray eyes and, for a moment, it felt like time slowed to a crawl.

I know that sounds dramatic, but if you actually _knew_ this man…

"You," Sergeant Byrne said to me. "Garris, is it?"

I was nearly petrified. All I could manage was a breathy, "Sir?"

Byrne let out a sigh and flicked his eyes up to the heavens briefly before trying again. "Have you forgotten your name, shiteface?"

Thank God my voice came back in time for me to reply, "No, sir!"

"Clear your friend's weapon jam," he ordered me.

"Yes, sir!" I replied out of reflex. I stood up and stepped over to Dempsey, grabbing his MA5. I worked the firing bolt mechanism in the way Critchley had described and demonstrated. At first, the bolt refused to give, but after a second try it slid forward with a smooth click.

"Nicely done, shiteface," Byrne said to me. "For a first attempt. You'll do better next time, though; it isn't hard to improve on utter garbage. With a few months of practice, you just _might_ be on par with a quadruple amputee."

I kept my face blank and expressionless and replied, "Thank you, sir!"

We spent around an hour disassembling and reassembling our rifles, taking them apart and putting them back together over and over and over again. I guess that was what was going to be the key to learning this: sheer, brutal, raw repetition.

"Again! Again!" Byrne would bark every time we successfully completed a cycle.

We did this well into the afternoon. Epsilon Indi was beginning to fall into the west when Byrne ordered us to put our rifles down and change out of our fatigues into our PT gear, which comprised of only blue shorts and white tank-tops.

Sergeant Byrne took us out onto the greens and set us to work. Sit-ups, push-ups, squats, combos…anything the Irishman could think of. At one point, he even had us doing these complex eight-part push-ups where we would start standing up, crouch down to a squatting position, then fall into the push-up position. We would then spread our legs, then bring them back together, execute the full push-up, return to the squatting position, and then jump back to our feet. All of that counted as _one_ push-up. We did around fifty of those.

Sweat was literally pouring off of our faces when we switched over to jumping-jacks. After what seemed like hours of exercising under Epsilon Indi's burning glare, Byrne seemed to take pity on us by ordering us to form up into our usual block formation. Once we were square away, the Irishman led us through the compound and the fields surrounding it until we reached the long line of asphalt that stretched from one horizon to the other. The Gladsheim Highway.

"Know this stretch of land, boys," Byrne said to us after the fifth kilometer or so, right before he turned us around and started marching the five kilometers back towards the compound. "Know it and love it; tomorrow, you're going to be running it!"

When we got back to camp, we had about five seconds to take a breather before Byrne had us back on the greens doing those goddamned push-ups again. Men were sweating, groaning, and swearing all around me. One particular voice was getting more and more loud and profane until I realized that the voice was my own. I clamped down on my mouth, silencing myself before I got carried away.

"How you doin', Garris?" it was Carrol who had spoken, my squad leader. He was behind me. John Carrol never ceased to amaze me. He had been a member of the Oëlfurth Police Department. He had a beer belly and looked as if he had never gone more than five feet away from a couch in his lifetime, but yesterday he had been able to complete Byrne's morning hell-run through the rain to the beach and back without too much effort. Now, he was pushing 'em out as easily as if he were lifting boxes filled with feathers.

"Surviving, sir," I grunted as I completed the push-up I was in the middle of. I cast an envious glance back at Carrol. How was it that Carrol—a man who was on the verge of being considered fat—could do all these push-ups without so much as a muted grunt every now and then, as opposed to _me_—a sixteen-year-old stick, who could barely keep his stomach off the ground. It defied reason, didn't it? What the hell was my excuse?

"Platoon, rest!" Byrne finally barked after the thirtieth push-up combo. We staggered back to our feet, swaying and panting in the heat of Harvest's summer. It felt odd that it had been chilly and rainy only yesterday, but today it was sweltering. But hey, that was normal weather in the South of Edda.

"Any of you heathens know what today happens to be?" Byrne asked us after we finished. Before anyone had the chance to reply, Byrne continued to speak. "Time for a little sermon, to get you all into the spirit of things. Now, I'm paraphrasing a little, but this is the general story. One day, 'bout oh…two-and-a-half thousand years ago, the great God Almighty decided to pay a visit to a certain woman down here on Earth. Him and this woman got to know each other, had a few cold ones, and then made sweet love in the master bedroom. Nine months later, this same woman, who was too poor to afford birth-control, gives birth to Jesus Christ. That day was today, boys. December 25. Merry Christmas."

I think we were equal parts stunned at Byrne's rabid blasphemy—I wasn't even Christian, but _damn_… if that Irishman didn't even fear God, what _did_ he fear? I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from giggling. Staff Sergeant Byrne probably would not react too well to laughter.

"Good bloke, Jesus," Byrne mused. "Helluva good chap. Romans nailed 'im up on a cross and he died for the sins of mankind. It is written that from that moment on, Mankind was automatically born innocent, and all he has to do to get into Heaven if he does something naughty is repent. _Now,_ because of that, the UNSC can go and kill as many Innie bastards as we want, and in the end we can all just say we're sorry like good boys and get off scot-free. Ain't this a wonderful universe we all live in?"

"Sir, yes sir!" we all chorused.

"Alright, boys, Christmas sermon is over," Byrne barked, concluding his sermon, twisted and blasphemous as it was. "Captain Ponder has seen fit to grace you sacks of muck with a proper dinner befitting Christmas of '24. Now, I will not have the lot of ye tromping in through the mess hall lookin' and smellin' like you do right now. Fall out and report to the showers."

"Yes, sir!" we said in unison.

I never remember a shower feeling so good. Not all of us had gotten one yesterday, and we had been paying for it. I think Byrne had made that first shower optional to force those of us who _hadn't_ showered to realize just how important our hygiene would be in the days ahead, mostly by making us feel miserable without it for twenty-four hours.

Dempsey was showering next to me; the bathhouse had no sense of privacy. The shower room was one large square space lined with shower heads. No stalls, no curtains. That was no matter, though; we all knew we were going to be seeing a lot of each other for a long while. As Sergeant Byrne had said: personal space was the first thing to go flying out the window.

I remembered something Dempsey had said to me on the bus, about how it was ridiculous that I would be joining the militia when I wasn't even old enough to have hair on my danger zone. I cleared my throat, catching Dempsey's attention.

"Hey, Demp," I grunted, gesturing down at myself. "See that? That's hair, farm-boy. _Hair_. Looks like you were wrong, eh?"

Dempsey rolled his eyes and turned back to his shower, not replying.

I shrugged, wrapping a towel around my waist and stepping into the outer room where we had left our fatigues. I was one of the first to get dressed and step back outside onto the greens, where 1st Platoon had also congregated. Within ten minutes, Johnson and Byrne got all of us squared away and we all trickled into the mess hall, ready for the Christmas dinner that the sergeants had promised.

The mess hall staff had prepared roast turkey for dinner, along with a wide assortment of other sides. I knew that this was the best we would probably get in our time here, so I dug right in. I also knew that Byrne and Johnson would not give us an eternity to eat our dinner, so it was better to eat as much as possible as quickly as possible. Or so I thought.

I was really digging in, but I was not the fastest eater. I had grown up on the streets of Gladsheim; whenever I got food, I had always eaten it sparingly. Stuffing my face was a fine art which I had never practiced. This food was good, though; the cooks really knew their stuff.

Men were burping and slapping their bellies after a few minutes. I myself began to feel pretty full after five or six minutes of steady eating. I washed everything down with a nice drink of water and relaxed, feeling as content as I would ever feel for a long time.

I reached forward to take another bite of the turkey leg on my plate when the doors to the mess hall flew open. Byrne and Johnson strode in, clad in their usual sergeant's garb, shouting at the top of their lungs.

"Drop your cocks and grab your socks, ladies!" Johnson bellowed, unsheathing his power baton and upping the setting until the blue crackles of electricity were actually visible to the naked eye.

"We're running the Beach, cumbuckets! Three kilometers down, three kilometers back! Let's move, let's move, let's _move!_" Byrne barked. "Oh…and Merry Christmas," he added with a near-sadistic leer.

All of us—1st _and_ 2nd Platoon recruits alike—all stood up as one and filed out of the mess hall, all of us grumbling and cursing under our breaths, damning those sergeants to Hell with every fiber of our collective being.

The sergeants sent us forward on the path to the Beach, the same route we had taken yesterday morning, through the rain. Only _this_ time we were running on very full stomachs. It wasn't long before men started coughing, and then throwing up, retching their dinners out onto the trail in front of them. Those who had been stuffing their faces since the moment they had gotten their trays had it the worst.

I hadn't really eaten all that much compared to most of the others, so I was just extremely uncomfortable. I was running behind Carrol who—and I really wasn't surprised—seemed unaffected by his churning stomach.

"I swear to God…" it was Dempsey who was speaking, interspersing words with coughs and gags as he tried to keep his protesting dinner down in his stomach where it belonged. "I swear to God that, one day, I'm going to fucking kill those jarheads."

I didn't reply. I just kept on running. I couldn't afford to be distracted; I was trying to keep _my_ dinner down as well. I _hated_ throwing up.

Next person who says freakin' _Merry Christmas_ to me will get a fucking bullet in his piehole; and that, my friends, is a fact. A cold, solid fact.


	4. I Chapter 4: Blood, Sweat, and Guts

Chapter Four: Time, Sweat, and Guts

**January 5, 2525 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

_Droppin' from the sky straight into Hell!_

_Devil went 'n gave us all a grand farewell!_

Staff Sergeant Byrne called out the cadence at a steady rhythm, keeping it in time with his pace. His footfalls in turn landed in time with the cadence, accentuating every other syllable of the chant.

Every time Byrne called out a new line of cadence, all of us would repeat it back to him in the same rhythm and beat. The cadence was not just for shits and giggles; it was to keep _us_ perfectly in step with the rest of the formation. We were jogging down the Gladsheim Highway in a tight formation of nine rows of four, all of us focusing on keeping in time with everyone else, remembering the verses of the PT chant, and ignoring Epsilon Indi's burning glare.

_Hit the dirt, punch out, and fill yourself with glee!_

_Get to kill some Innie bastards for the UNSC!_

It wasn't a brutal pace we were running at, at least. Sergeant Byrne pushed us, but he did not ask the impossible of us. No, he was careful to ask us to perform just a hair short of impossible. But we did it. Somehow, we did it.

_We'll get up in the morning to the risin' sun!_

_Killin' Innie bastards is how we have fun!_

What made this run different from all the others we had done in the two weeks we had been here was that we were now running with all of our gear; rifles and all. When Epsilon Indi started to blaze in the mid-morning sky, the march went from strenuous to strenuous _and_ sweltering. Not the best combination, but bearable to a native of Harvest.

"Platoon, take it right!" Byrne barked as he led us back into the gravel lot of the militia training compound. We passed by the HQ building where Captain Ponder resided and walked out onto the parade grounds. As we made our way onto the parade grounds, we followed Byrne's direction and wheeled to the right without breaking formation. It was a simple maneuver that was nearly a second nature to all of us now; days of relentless parade drills before dinner and the retiring of the flags, as well as Byrne's punishments for anyone who messed up, had driven the fine art of marching deep into our minds.

Byrne walked us straight into the firing range. The range was located on the north end of the compound, the opposite side of the barracks, which were on the south side. The range was not an actual structure or building; it was an open stretch of land that extended out to the wheat fields on the compound's outer perimeter. Targets had been set up at carefully-measured distances from the designated firing line, the farthest of which were right at the point where the wheat fields started.

"This range is supervised by the range computer, and that computer has a wireless connection to each of your weapons," Byrne said to us. "It will log your hits, misses, and accuracy, and then it will tell you how worthless you are to me after you are finished. You will break up into your squads and take a portion of the firing range. We'll be here until dinner, so get comfy."

A week ago, one of us might have asked, "_What about lunch, sir?_" No one asked that today. We had learned the hard way _never_ to ask questions that applied to our personal benefit. Had we asked about it, we probably would have lost all lunches for the next five days.

"Bravo, down center!" Carrol, my squad leader, was hollering, waving for me and my squadmates to take the center portion of the firing range. The heavyset former-constable wiped a film of sweat off of his forehead and stood at our position on the firing line.

Stisen's Alpha Squad and Habel's Charlie Squad took the other two portions of the range, on either side of us.

I had a squad of some pretty okay guys. Each squad consisted of twelve recruits. In Bravo, there was me, of course; there was Dempsey, and Carrol, our squad leader. Then there was Lowell, a nervous, jumpy kid of around eighteen or nineteen. He had an M6J carbine, however, so his nervous ticks obviously didn't carry over into his performance with a weapon, as his possession of the carbine showed that he had performed well in the firearms test at the recruiting stations.

There was Billings; a brutish, somewhat ill-tempered man in his early thirties, most likely seeking a way to escape the endless farms of Harvest, as with all the other babies from the farmlands. After him, there came Worthington. Worthington struck me as the silent type; he was a great, big, bear of a man, but I had only heard him speak maybe once in all our time here. After Worthington there was Rosen and Hadley, Omar, Kaczynski, Davis, and Rickett. None of them were bad guys; sure, Billings could get heated sometimes, but none of them seemed like they would let their teammates down. I hope they think the same of me.

Byrne had been drilling extensively with the squad leaders lately, teaching them how to use their weapons, as well as the rifle range. Now, Byrne was stepping back and letting the squad leaders take control for 2nd Platoon's first live-fire target shoot.

"Alright, men, load a clip of live ammo into the chamber," Carrol instructed us. As we fumbled with our ammunition, the heavyset squad leader showed all of us how to properly slot the magazine into our weapons. Carrol had an MA5 assault rifle, which was very different from my M6J in appearance and performance, but many of the inner workings of the two weapons were very similar, such as the reloading mechanism.

I reached into my rifle bag and grabbed a clip of live ammo, pushing it up into my carbine's chamber, making sure I remembered to slide the loading bolt forward to lock it in place.

"The range computer will log the performance of your weapons individually," Carrol said to us, "So it is alright to have two people shooting at the same target. I would encourage all of you to aim for different distances every time you take a shot."

"Positions on the firing line!" Byrne shouted out. "Let's see what you pukes are capable of!"

I went prone, lying in the grass on my stomach. I went through all of the procedures pertaining to my M6J carbine through my head as I positioned the rifle in front of me and sighted it downrange. Dempsey and Omar were on either side of me, both of them fumbling with their MA5 assault rifles.

I thumbed off my M6J's safety and curled my finger around the trigger, bringing the carbine tight against my shoulder and gazing straight through the ironsights.

"Commence firing!" Byrne finally said, allowing us to open up at the targets.

A sharp wave of staccato pops rippled forth from the firing line as everyone fired off their first shots at the same time. It sounded like popping bubble-wrap. After that first volley, however, the noise deteriorated into the normal, constant clatter of a rifle range in use.

I readjusted my aim and fired off another shot at the closest target. I heard the metallic _ping_ as the round zinged off the set-up. I scored a good hit; not quite a bull's-eye, but pretty close.

"Your weapons are extensions of your will!" Byrne stated as he paced behind us. "When you _will_ your enemy to be dead, your weapon will perform the task for you. Feel your rifles! _Be_ your rifles!"

I got my breath under control and aimed downrange again, trying for a more distant target. I emptied the rest eighteen-round clip into this target in the carbine's semi-auto single-shot mode. I reached for my rifle bag and pulled out another magazine. I quickly ejected the empty one and slotted the new one into the carbine's chamber, locking the bolt in place after this was done.

I did pretty well on the range that first day. I wasn't the best shot in the platoon—Critchley and Werner both had me beat by a good margin—but I _was_ the best shot in Bravo Squad, me and Scotty Lowell. I could see Carrol taking note of that as we observed our scored later on in the afternoon when we were done.

"That was damn near a sharpshooter's performance, Garris," Carrol nodded to me. "Keep it up."

* * *

We spent the next few days on the firing range. Byrne had already hammered how to take care of the barracks into our minds, as well as marching, PT runs, and staying the hell out of his way. Now, he seemed to be focusing on shooting.

Hey, I wasn't complaining. Sure, shooting required concentration and discipline, but all you were really doing was lying on the ground for a few hours. I'd take that over running the Beach any day.

Naturally, all good things had to come to an end. After about a week of intense training at the rifle range, Byrne began to send all of us to the obstacle course; a diabolical set-up of tall wooden obstacles that needed to be scaled, ropes, tires, and the belly-crawl gully. The gully was wide enough for six or seven men to proceed through it at the same time. It was not flat, though; the sergeants had added and dug away dirt to give the simulation of hills. They had also strung barbed wire across the top of the gully, so the men crawling through it would be forced to keep their heads down, no matter what.

Captain Ponder was gone today. He had gone to Utgard for the Solstice Celebration at the invitation of Governor Thune. The invitation had also been extended to one of Ponder's staff sergeants, so the good Captain had taken Johnson with him, leaving Byrne in charge of both platoons. That was why we had 1st Platoon also doing this exercise right behind us.

We went by squads; Alpha first, Bravo second, and Charlie last, naturally. The start of the obstacle course was a long set of monkey-bars that extended over a large mud pit. The bars were not a flat straight-shot, either; they went up and down at regular intervals in an up-and-down zigzag. The whole thing was at least thirty or forty feet long.

The monkey-bars were wide enough for two men, so each squad split into two lines of six. At Byrne's command, the twelve recruits of Alpha Squad, led by Stisen, set to it, beginning to cross the monkey bars two recruits at a time.

"This is a _squad_ exercise, girls!" Byrne exclaimed as Alpha set off, emphasizing the word 'squad'. "If your _entire_ squad does not cross the finish within the allotted time, then your _entire_ squad has failed! Personal space was the first thing to go out the window here; lone-wolves will be the second! You are not supersoldiers; if you do not stick together and watch each others' backs, you'll be attending your own funeral in a box! Bravo Squad, go!"

Rosen and Hadley were the first two of my squadmates in line. They jumped up and started swinging themselves from bar to bar, quickly traversing the mud pit as fast as they could. As they reached the half-way mark, Byrne ordered Billings and Omar, who were the next to in line, to go.

I was next to Dempsey towards the rear of my squad. Carrol and Worthington were behind us, and behind them were Davis and Feldman from Charlie Squad. Gradually, the rest of my squad went down the bars until I found myself waiting at the edge of the mud pit.

When Rickett and Kaczynski, who had been in front of us, reached the halfway mark, Byrne turned to Dempsey and I. "Shiteface, Twinkletoes," he grunted at me and Dempsey respectively, "don't disappoint me. _Go!_"

I flexed my leg muscles and leaped into the air. For a brief, terrifying moment, I was afraid that I was losing my grip on the first bar, but I clamped my hands down around the metal and stopped myself from sliding. I swung myself back, to get momentum, and then back forward. I reached forward with my right hand and managed to grasp the next bar. Before my forward momentum was arrested, I let go of the bar behind me and used the forward swing to push myself further forward. I grasped the third bar with my left hand while letting go of the second bar with my right hand. The cycle repeated over and over as I pulled myself closer and closer towards the other end.

I was faintly aware of Dempsey huffing and puffing next to me as he struggled to keep himself up. I paid no attention; I was on a roll, and a lapse in concentration could result in a quick plummet into the mud. It wasn't falling into the mud that frightened me so much as the possible fate awaiting me _after_ falling. Byrne would probably use his imagination, as always.

Before I even realized it, I had reached the final bar. It was made of wood, not metal, so I instantly knew I was at the end just by the different texture. I dropped down to the ground, careful to avoid the edges of the mud pit. Dempsey dropped down next to me a few seconds later. The blond-haired young man was red in the face and breathing a little hard, but otherwise okay.

Next came the tires; a twenty-yard-long stretch of old rubber tires arrayed in columns and fixed into the ground. Recruits would have to run through those tires by stepping through their middles. It was harder than it looked; when running at a fast speed, as was required in this exercise, it was very easy to misplace a foot and end up facedown.

I kept a good eye on my feet as I ran through the tires. The trick was to keep up a steady rhythm with your feet; putting your feet forward a certain distance before bringing them down to the ground, as well as keeping the timing static. It was similar to jumprope—you didn't wait for the rope to hit the ground before jumping; you jumped at regular, internally timed intervals.

Dempsey tripped up about halfway through, but I managed to catch him by the elbow before he went all the way down. I flicked a glance over my shoulder to see if Byrne had noticed, but the Irishman was busy yelling at a Charlie Squad recruit who had nearly fallen into the mud pit on the first bar. Demspey lucked out this time.

"Gotcha," I grunted to Dempsey, hauling him back up to his feet.

Dempsey muttered a thanks and got right back to it. We made it through the rest of the tires without anymore trouble. Next came the crawling gully, where recruits had to crawl on their bellies through fifty or so meters of dirt mounds and holes. Barbed wire was strung across the top of the gully, so we had to keep down low.

After the first ten meters came the first bump that we had to crawl over. I pulled myself up to the top and rolled down into the bottom. I reached forward and instantly recoiled when my hand landed in something wet and slimy.

I looked forward and almost screamed at what I saw. The next few meters of the crawl were strewn with insides. Livers, stomachs, intestines and about a dozen other parts I never knew even existed; all of them littering the dirt that we had to crawl across. Some of the intestines were strewn over the barbed wire and hung down to the ground, where they coiled up in a grotesque pile.

"_Holy shit!_" Dempsey cried out as he rolled down next to me, taking in the grisly sight of all the viscera.

"Keep going!" I managed to shout. "The Sarge'll kill us if we stop here!"

I gritted my teeth as I started crawling forward again. I tried to avoid crawling over the innards, but they were, for the most part, unavoidable. My mind briefly flashed back to early this morning after Reveille. Byrne had said that we were going to be having steak for dinner tonight. Well, it seemed that the cooks had obviously found a good use for the innards of the cows they had cooked up.

Dempsey was grunting and muttering, "I'm gonna _kill_ that fucker," over and over again as he moved, most likely fantasizing about the thousands of different ways he wanted to bring Byrne's life to an end. I said nothing; my mouth was staying sealed as long as there were freakin' _insides_ right in front of them.

I had to hand it to Byrne, though. His methods for making our lives into a miserable living Hell were genius. Sadistic and twisted at times—like right now—but genius nonetheless.

I made my way out of the gully, grimy and swearing. My fatigues were a mess, especially with the visceral fluids from the innards now splattered across them. I hoped with every fiber of my being that Byrne would at least let us change into our other set of fatigues before we went to the mess hall for dinner.

Last in the obstacle course came the wall; a ten-foot-tall wooden slab of wood plated into the ground right after the gully. Recruits simply had to climb over it. I was not a very tall person, only 5'5 or so, so I had more trouble reaching the top. Dempsey was taller, however, and he easily grabbed hold of the lip of the wall, hauling himself up. He then turned and extended a hand to me, gesturing for me to hurry.

I grabbed Dempsey's hand, and the blond-haired man hauled me up far enough so that I could grasp the top of the wall as well. I pulled myself up and swung one of my legs over the other side so that I was now straddling the wall. Dempsey dropped down to the other side, but I remained on top for a moment, waiting for Carrol and Worthington to get out of the gully.

Carrol noticed me and waved me on. "Go!" he shouted. "We'll be fine!"

I agreed with him; Worthington and Carrol were probably the most fit members of Bravo Squad, with the possible exception of Billings. They would be fine.

I dropped down to the dirt and sprinted after Dempsey and the rest of my squadmates through the half-a-kilometer loop that cut through the wheat fields and led straight back to the beginning of the obstacle course.

When Carrol and Worthington arrived at the end of the loop, all of Bravo Squad passed by Staff Sergeant Byrne as a group.

The Irishman grunted as he checked his watch. "Well, you bastards seem to have learned how to _move_ your pansy-asses… I suppose you're not all total losses. Yet."

* * *

Staff Sergeant Byrne stepped out of the mess hall, giving his belly an affectionate pat. Dinner tonight had been steak and mashed potatoes, courtesy of the cooks. Afterwards, he had gotten back in touch with his Irish roots and had a discreet drink of whiskey from one of his canteens.

Johnson was waiting for the Irishman outside. A subtle twitch of Byrne's lip was the only indicator of the Irishman's 'strong feelings' towards Johnson. Several months ago, Johnson and Byrne had participated together in a mission on the colony of Tribute, in the Epsilon Eridanus system. Their Special Warfare group was taking down an Insurrectionist bomb-making facility. While this operation was successful, not all of the explosives were secured. The missing explosives were eventually traced to a truck outside of a Jim Dandy restaurant located on one of Tribute's main highways.

Those explosives were never secured. There had been two Insurrectionists in the Jim Dandy restaurant, which had also been packed with civilians at the time. Johnson's squad was assigned as reserve to Byrne's squad, which moved in on the restaurant itself. Johnson had sniper duty. Johnson had managed to take out the first Innie but the second rebel was able to take a small child hostage.

Johnson had been unable to take the shot at the rebel without endangering the child's life. Unfortunately, his hesitation cost Byrne dearly. During Johnson's hesitation, the child's father tried to tackle the Insurrectionist holding his son hostage. The rebel then blew the explosives, taking out the entire restaurant. Thirty-eight civilians, as well as Staff Sergeant Byrne's entire squad, died in the blast. Byrne himself only barely managed to survive, and even then, he had to spend a month confined to a hospital bed, recovering from severe burns. Even now, his jet-black hair was still starting to grow back. Byrne had blamed Johnson for his squad's death ever since, hence the bad blood between the two.

Byrne glanced at Johnson and immediately looked away. The sight of the black sergeant's face sent his mind flashing back to that hot, sticky day on Tribute, the blinding flash of light, the searing heat of the explosion…

"Nolan," Johnson said curtly to the Irishman, calling him by his first name.

"Avery," Byrne replied in an equally tight-lipped tone, saying nothing more. He fell in step next to Johnson as they made their way across the greens to the HQ building. Captain Ponder had summoned Byrne to come to him after dinner. There was nothing in the good Captain's orders about making small-talk with Johnson, so he did not make any attempt. There was nothing to talk about.

Captain Ponder waited for the two sergeants to close the front entrance door to the HQ building before speaking. He was seated at a small, circular table, along with a darkish-skinned woman with deep green eyes and short, black hair, dressed in a simple black uniform.

"Staff Sergeant Byrne," Ponder gave a nod to the Irishman, "I would like to introduce you to Commander Jilan al-Cygni, ONI Section Three."

"Ma'am," the Irishman snapped the woman a crisp salute.

"At ease, Sergeant Byrne," al-Cygni replied. "You and Sergeant Johnson are to accompany me immediately to the Tiara space station. I'll brief you along the way."

"What? We're leaving?" Byrne sounded genuinely surprised, a rare occurrence from him.

"For a time, yes," Captain Ponder nodded. "I will take personal command of the recruits during both of your absences."

"This is the real reason why we brought two seasoned veterans of Operation: TREBUCHET to a backwater colony like this," al-Cygni explained as she rose to her feet. "UNSC-DCS freighters have been disappearing in this system, lately. ONI suspects the Insurrectionists."

"Who _else_ would it be? Aliens?" Byrne grunted, resisting the strong urge he was feeling to roll his eyes.

Commander al-Cygni shrugged. "I am going to put you men on one of these freighters. If and when the Innie bastards try to capture it, you'll be waiting for them. If possible, you will take prisoners. If not…then you will allow none to escape."

Byrne grunted again, offering a nonchalant shrug. "Sounds like fun."


	5. I Chapter 5: Anticlimax

Chapter Five: Anticlimax

**January 13, 2525 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

"I would like to introduce all of you to my friend here!" Captain Ponder proclaimed, holding something up for all of us to see.

I joined my squadmates in squinting and leaning forward to get a better look at what our CO was holding.

In his left hand—his _real_ hand—the marine veteran held a bright red, bullet-shaped object. "Does anyone know what this is?" Ponder waved the object in the air, raising a questioning eyebrow. When all he received in response were seventy-two blank stares, Ponder continued speaking. "This, my friends, is a standard-issue TTR, which stands for 'tactical training round'. It is basically an upgraded paintball, only it performs exactly like a live round. Once fired, a proximity fuse contained within this TTR will dissolve the plastic polymer shell when it comes within ten centimeters of any surface. When this happens, the TTR will then dissolve into a mere harmless blob of red paint."

A ghost of a grin flickered over my face. Was Ponder about to send us all off into a game of shoot-out with paint-bullets? That had to be every Harvestian sixteen-year-old's wet dream; paintball with real guns. Awesome.

Captain Ponder had been personally commanding both 1st and 2nd Platoon for a week now. Eight days ago, Byrne and Johnson, our two platoon leaders and drill instructors, had mysteriously vanished. Captain Ponder said that they were off on business for the Harvest government, but refused to say anymore. It didn't add up, but hey; none of us were really keen enough to delve into the matter.

The Captain had had us doing menial tasks around the compound, interspersed with regular stints at the firing range and PT runs on the Gladsheim Highway. All of this repetitive, non-stop physical exercise was working its magic; I could feel it within myself. When I had first arrived here over three weeks ago, I had thought I was in reasonable shape. How wrong I had been; I had nearly died after Byrne ran us to the Beach and back in the rain. Now, however…now I could complete that very same run without having my lungs burning up every step of the way. Gradually, I knew, I was starting to become a soldier.

"You all are wearing the training fatigues issued to you last week," Ponder continued. "They are made of a special material. When the TTR round's paint makes contact with your fatigues, a chemical reactant will cause the fibers of your fatigues to stiffen, immobilizing that part of your body. In addition to this, the anesthetic will temporarily paralyze the part of your body that was hit. It can also knock you out cold if you are hit in a vital area; all of this is to simulate, as much as possible, getting shot by real bullets."

A chorus of murmurs rose from our ranks as we quietly voiced our respective opinions on this new dimension of training. I wasn't really digging the whole getting-knocked-out part, but everything else... I thought it was going to be fun. Who wouldn't have?

"You will proceed to the armory and trade in your live ammo for magazines of TTR," Ponder instructed us. "After that, you all will report to the forest for your first 'live'-fire exercise. Does anyone have any questions?"

"How are we going to execute this exercise?" Stisen, the hawk-nosed former constable who was in charge of Alpha Squad, 2nd Platoon, or 2/A, asked.

"Platoon on platoon, obviously," Ponder replied. "Standard live-fire simulation rules; the first platoon to eliminate 66% of the opposing force wins."

Sixty-six percent. That meant that we would have to neutralize two-thirds of Johnson's platoon to win—twenty-four recruits, the equivalent of two squads. I told myself not to sweat it, that we would cream them when the time came.

* * *

It was a six-klick march to the training site. There was a forest located some distance south of our training facility which marked the end of the rolling wheat fields that covered so much of the Edda supercontinent. The Munin Sea in turn lay south of the forest. Our training exercise was taking place deep within this forest. The training site was a thousand-yard-long rectangular piece of land with fences forming its borders. It comprised of two hillsides on each end of the rectangle, with a small creek flowing in the valley between them. The entire area was covered with trees and underbrush, but not enough to effectively obstruct vision. This exercise would be won through fast reactions and reflexes on the parts of the squad leaders, who would be in charge of the operation.

1st Platoon broke ranks and jogged on forward through the gate in the fence, heading off to the north end of the training site, vanishing behind the hill. Be headed to the hill on the south end. Captain Ponder would be observing from a hidden post in the trees above.

I took care not to trip on the roots that reached out of the ground as I joined the rest of my platoon on top of the southern hill. Captain Ponder had made the squad leaders of both platoons synchronize watches, and then told them to begin the training exercise at precisely 1300 hours. Right now, it was 1253. Seven minutes to go.

We divided up into our squads, all of us standing in three separate groups. Stisen, Carrol, and Habel—the three squad leaders in 2nd Platoon—all huddled together, drawing up plans for our upcoming skirmish with Johnson's boys.

"What d'you s'pose they're talkin' about?" Ricketts, one of my squadmates, spoke up, breaking the silence that had settled over us.

Dempsey rolled his eyes. "Oh, gee, I really don't know," the blond-haired twenty-year-old grunted. "They're obviously exchanging corn-muffin recipes."

"Hey, no need t'get all pissy with me," Ricketts shrugged, falling silent once more. Ricketts was an opinionated man, usually always wearing a grin on his face and not afraid to speak his mind to anyone. Except Sergeant Byrne, of course. Several weeks ago, Ricketts had once commented on the weather at the time, going on about how nice a day it had been. Byrne had then forced Ricketts to do push-ups for half-an-hour while he drenched the recruit from above with a water hose. That had been the last time Ricketts had commented on the weather.

Hadley, the oldest member of our squad—a former constable of around fifty years old—spoke up next. "Ricketts, do us all a favor, would ya?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut the hell up."

"_Quiet,_" the hiss came from Carrol, who was returning to us from the squad-leader powwow. "We move in four."

"What's our plan of action, sir?" I asked.

"When the time hits 1300, we are moving down the western perimeter," Carrol explained to us. "We will then take up positions on the north side of the creek so that we can cover Alpha's advance. Stisen will be moving his boys right up through the center while Charlie Squad comes up behind in reserve."

"The center?" Omar echoed in disbelief at first, but the disbelief quickly turned into nonchalance. The broad-shouldered recruit gave a simple shrug. "Better Alpha Squad than us," he said.

None of us could argue with him there.

The seconds ticked by. All of us made sure our SQUADCOM was working before we prepped our weapons. The final two minutes were spent sitting around, waiting for 1300.

I slid a mag of TTR into my M6J carbine, relishing the feel of racking and locking the bolt. I thumbed off the safety and checked the ironsights. Satisfied that everything was in order, I sat back on my haunches, resting my weapon across my knees.

"Everyone pumped for-" Ricketts started to ask, but he was cut off by a glare from pretty much everyone else in the squad.

"Garris, Lowell; you both are the best shots in the squad," Carrol said to me and Scotty Lowell, the jumpy, nervous kid in our squad who had also received an M6J. "When we're on the move, keep to the rear of our advance."

Lowell and I both gave a quick nod in reply.

1300 hours finally came. Our COM crackled and Stisen's voice came over the channel. "_Advance,_" was all he said.

"Bravo Squad, on me," Carrol instructed us. The heavyset former constable rose to a semi-standing-up position and set off into the woods, moving at a brisk pace but keeping his head down low. We all did likewise.

At Carrol's order, Billings took Worthington and Davis and fanned out to the right of our formation. Meanwhile, Ricketts moved up ahead and took point.

"_Nothing up here but empty bushes and trees, sir,_" Ricketts would report back every few minutes.

"Ricketts; maintain radio silence and don't signal back until you reach the creek," Carrol responded.

"_I'm already there, sir,_" Ricketts said.

"What?" Carrol nearly shouted into the SQUADCOM. The squad leader lowered his voice into an urgent hiss, so as not to give away his position. "Ricketts, pull back _now_; you're too far ahead of our advance!" he whisper-shouted.

"_It's alright, sir, there's noth—_agh!"

The SQUADCOM went silent. Our three squadmembers over on our right flank stopped dead and we all exchanged a glance with each other. It had not been our imaginations; we had _heard_ Ricketts get attacked by something.

"Ricketts?" Carrol spoke into the SQUADCOM, trying in vain to get a response. "Do you read me, Ricketts? Respond, recruit; that's an order!"

There was a five-second-long pause as we all held our breaths, listening for any sign of acknowledgment from Ricketts. Still nothing. Carrol muttered something under his breath and turned back to the rest of us. "We are now minus one; Ricketts is down. Proceed with caution. Billings?"

"Sir?" the ill-tempered Billings grunted, happy as he ever was.

"You are now on point," Carrol said to him. "Take up our forward position and report any enemy movement. Try not to get yourself tagged, alright?"

Billings gave a simple nod and tramped off into the woods. It made me wince, watching him wade off through the shrubbery; the man was loud enough to wake the dead. I could tell that the same thoughts were going through Carrol's mind; no doubt this would be the last time Billings was ever assigned as pointman. Ricketts usually did a good job as our forward scout…only this time, he got overeager and underestimated 1st Platoon.

I checked my ammo indicator as we pushed through the underbrush. It was full, reading 'eighteen'. I know, it really wasn't necessary to do that, but I was about to go into battle. Or at least the closest thing you can get to a battle without actually having one. One of my nervous ticks was that I would keep checking and rechecking my weapons, always searching for some non-existent problem that needed fixing. Maybe that was borderline-OCD, but hey; it just might save my sorry ass in the future. Who knows?

I exchanged a glance with Lowell. The jumpy kid was a year or two older than me—probably eighteen years old, seventeen minimum. He was from one of the agrarian expanses located near the northeastern reaches of the Bifrost. From some of his stories, he had spent a good portion of his childhood shooting crows off of his family's corn silos with an old hunting rifle. He was a good shot through experience, unlike me.

I was a good shot through…well…I really don't know why I'm a good shot, to be honest. I've never handled a gun in my life. When the militia recruiter had handed me a carbine and told me to shoot a target as accurately as possible, I had obviously done _something_ right, even if I did it without knowing it.

"Sharpshooters, stay back," Carrol ordered us as we neared the creek. We could hear the sound of water trickling and flowing over the rocks, which told us that the creek was nearby. Seeing as Ricketts had been tagged at the creek, it was safe to assume that 1st Platoon was present as well. "Everyone else proceed with extreme caution. Billings, what is your position?"

Silence.

"Billings, what is your position?" Carrol repeated himself. Still no response. "Billings, are you there? Billings?"

"_Shit_…" Dempsey muttered.

"All _right_, Billings is down," Carrol sighed. "Minus two. Worthington, Davis; secure our flank. Lowell, Garris; hold position here. You are my reserve. Everyone else, take up a defensive position along this side of the creek. If 1st Platoon wants to cross, they're going to have to get through us."

As the rest of Bravo Squad slipped further into the woods towards the creek, I stayed back with Lowell. The two of us waited for at least two minutes before our COM started squawking again.

"_Carrol, it's Stisen,_" the scratchy tones of Stisen, the leader of 2/A, came over the air. "_What the hell is 1st Platoon playing at; I'm across the creek, but I haven't run into anything yet._"

"_They have men over here by the west perimeter,_" Carrol replied. "_We have no idea what their numbers are, but they've already taken out two of my men._"

"_Should we bring Charlie in?_" Stisen asked.

"_Charlie Squad is ready to go,_" Habel chimed in.

"_I don't like the idea of bunching up like that_," Carrol murmured in reply. The idea of having all three of 2nd Platoon's squads crumpled up at the bank of the creek did not settle well with the heavyset Bravo Squad leader.

"_They'll get isolated if we leave them too far behind,_" Stisen argued.

The squad leaders were conversing on the open COM channel, so everyone in 2nd Platoon was able to hear it. I was just about to ask Carrol for new orders when the squad leaders' conversation was suddenly cut short by an explosion of gunfire up ahead.

Shouts could be heard; panicked cries and orders being barked, mixed with the staccato popping of the weaponsfire.

"_What the hell's going on up there?_" a shout came over the SQUADCOM. It was Davis, one of the two men on the right flank.

"_Everyone fall back to Charlie Squad's position!_" Carrol ordered us.

Hell, I wasn't waiting around to get shot; my ass was hightailing it out of there before Carrol finished his transmission. I could hear Lowell panting behind me, as well as the snapping of twigs and the crashing of feet in the underbrush further on back.

I crashed through a lattice of twigs and stumbled into a small clearing. Immediately, five rifle barrels were shoved into my face.

"Don't shoot, don't shoot; I'm one of you!" I cried, falling to my knees. Lowell barged into the clearing right behind me. He let out a startled yelp as he saw the weapons aimed at him and skidded to a halt.

The five 2/C recruits lowered their rifles, straightening up uncertainly.

"Kissinger! What's going on up there?" a man strode into the clearing, his MA5 assault rifle at the ready. It was Ron Habel, the leader of Charlie Squad.

"It's Garris and Lowell from Carrol's squad, sir," one of the 2/C recruits, presumably Kissinger, replied, gesturing towards us with the barrel of his rifle.

Habel gave us both an inquiring glance and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, Carrol burst into the clearing. Worthington and Omar were hot on his heels. Another second later, Dempsey came limping out of the woods, dragging his right leg behind him.

"What is going on?" Habel exclaimed again. "You fellas are supposed to be at the west fence!"

"1st Platoon; they jumped us," Carrol interrupted, moving up through the clearing.

"Where's the rest of the squad?" I asked him.

"This _is_ the rest of the squad," Dempsey snapped. "Kaczynski, Davis, Rosen, and Hadley are down…bastards got me in the leg, too," the blond-haired youth gestured at his right leg, which was limp and unmoving. I could see the red stains where the TTR paint had hit. The sedative in the TTR paint had obviously paralyzed the limb.

"We need to get back to the hill, pronto; 1st Platoon is coming right for us," Carrol advised. "We were setting up our line at the creek, then we just got swarmed."

"How many?" Habel asked.

"All of them."

"What if we climbed the trees?" I piped up, throwing in my two cents. "Catch 1st Platoon in a crossfire from above?"

"Not enough defilade in these trees to hide an entire squad," Carrol shook his head in disagreement, but the seed of the idea had still been planted in his mind. "But…it _could_ hide three or four people…"

"You think we should post our sharpshooters here?" Habel asked, reading Carrol's mind.

Carrol nodded, turning back to me. "Garris, Lowell; climb these trees. I want you to move up with 1st Platoon when they come through. Make them bleed every time they try to pass you. Can you do that?"

"Shouldn't be too hard," I shrugged.

"That's what I like to hear, Garris," Carrol clapped me on the shoulder. "Get the job done, son. We'll be counting on you." Carrol turned back to everyone else and barked, "Squad! On me!"

Carrol and Habel led everyone back south through the woods, moving towards the hillside we had started on. Meanwhile, Lowell and I scaled two of the nearby trees, nestling ourselves up in the thick leaves up near the canopy. Two men from Habel's squad, Critchley and Werner, were also present. They were Charlie Squad's sharpshooters; both of them better shots than me by a few points. I made a mental note to talk to Critchley next time I met him on the rifle range; I wanted to be as good as him. I tried to imagine the damage Critchley could accomplish with an actual sniper rifle for a moment before the sound of the approaching 1st Platoon shook me back to reality.

I focused my ironsights, shouldered my M6J, and waited for Johnson's boys to show.

They moved through the clearing quickly and steadily, but they were every bit as clumsy as us. However, what the 1st Platoon recruits _did_ have were numbers. It had to be the entire platoon moving through here, not just a squad or two.

I knew that me and the other longshots were just supposed to be thinning them out; there was no way in Hell the four of us could ever take all of 1st Platoon out on our own.

I laid my sights on the back of a short, overweight 1st Platoon recruit named Osmo who was making his way past the tree I was in. I did one last mental check, making sure I remembered flicking off the safety and locking the bolt in place. Satisfied that there was absolutely nothing more I could do to make myself more prepared for a firefight, I squeezed the trigger.

My carbine coughed, sending the TTR round flashing through the air and into my target. A splatter of red TTR paint blossomed in between Osmo's shoulder-blades. The recruit pitched forward and collapsed face-down into the ground, unconscious.

Critchley, Werner, and Lowell all opened fire at the same time as me. Four more 1st Platoon recruits were dropped before they even knew what hit them. I adjusted my aim and fired at another target. My shot went a little wide, hitting the man's shoulder instead. The man's arm went limp and he dropped his rifle, but he was not yet incapacitated.

By now, the 1st Platoon recruits had recovered from our surprise attack and were quickly ducking down into cover. They already knew the shots had come from trees, but they had yet to spot us. It was only a matter of time before they did, however. It was time to move.

There was a cry off to my left as I shimmied down my tree. I was able to see Werner fall out of the tree he had been hiding in. The sharpshooter was completely limp; three red splatters decorated his chest. He was down for the count.

I met up with Critchley on the ground. I looked around for Lowell, but he was nowhere to be found. He probably got tagged in his tree, too.

"Break up and find a new position!" Critchley ordered me. "We need to thin 'em out as much as possible before they reach the hill!"

"_Carrol, Habel, this is Stisen,_" my COM started to squawk as I made my way through the trees, fleeing from the concentrated fire of 1st Platoon. "_I'm hearing gunfire from your side of the creek_."

"_Stisen!_" I recognized the baritone tones of Carrol, "_Half my men are down! Get Alpha back down here; Habel and I are about to get the shit kicked out of us!_"

The squad leaders continued to converse with each other through the open channel, but I ignored them. All that mattered was taking down 1st Platoon before they made it to the hill.

My next hidey-hole was a nice little space tucked in between to large trees. The roots of those trees interlaced on the ground, and I was hiding amongst those roots, my rifle barrel poking out like a submarine's periscope in the ocean.

I heard Critchley fire off two shots down to my right, followed by a surge of shouts and retaliating weaponsfire.

Four 1st Platoon recruits rushed through a hedge and into the area where I was lying in wait. They were circling around and back, probably trying to flank Critchley.

I nudged my carbine over a bit to acquire them as targets, and then opened fire. The first man went down in a heap; I got him right in the stomach. The second was hit on his right leg and arm, and although he was not completely incapacitated, he was unable to move effectively.

The other two recruits dove to the side, avoiding my fire. I saw that they both wielded M6Js as well. Fellow sharpshooters. I fired off another shot at the larger recruit as he hunkered down behind a boulder, but it splattered against the rock.

It was time to move again. If I stayed any longer, I would get pinned down.

I broke cover and sprinted away through the foliage, making my way south. I didn't get away unscathed, though. I felt something slam into the area around my tailbone. I suddenly lost all feeling in my legs and collapsed to the ground.

"_Fuck!_" I swore, scrabbling about in the dirt, trying to get back to my feet. I had been hit by TTR paint right above my ass, and now I couldn't move my legs. It was a hell of a shot; it must have been Jenkins or Forsell who had hit me—they were the two best shots in 1st Platoon, perfectly capable of a shot like this.

"Critchley?" I whispered desperately into my COM, "Critchley, you there? Bastards got me right in the back…I can't move my legs!"

"_Stay put and shut up, would you?_" Critchley responded.

Having nothing else to do, I did just that. I stopped moving, shut my mouth, and waited. Before too long, I heard crunching twigs and leaves as the two 1st Platoon recruits drew near.

"…and you're sure you got him?" one of the men was saying.

"Yeah, right in the ass," the other answered. "Come on, this way; he can't have gotten far."

"There's another one around here somewhere…could be Critchley," the first man cautioned. "We should be careful."

"Look; that's him!"

I quickly closed my eyes and played 'dead'. Maybe it would work. Either way, there was no way I could take both 1st Platoon recruits out in my current state. Attempting to do so would only result in my being shot again.

I felt a boot prod me, but I still did not move a muscle.

"Looks like Garris," one of the recruits observed.

I gave myself a mental nod, confirming my earlier suspicions. Those two men were definitely Jenkins and Forsell; I recognized their voices from my long stints with them at the firing range.

"Good," the other recruit, Forsell, grunted. "He's one of Byrne's best shots. Good thing we knocked him down now."

"Let's double back," Jenkins suggested. "Maybe we could knock out Critchley while we're-"

That was all Jenkins had the chance to say. A sharp _crack_ rang out through the air, followed by a pained grunt, then a thud. I snapped open my eyes, taking in the sight of Jenkins lying unconscious on the ground. Just as Forsell started to raise his weapon in the direction of the shot, I grabbed my carbine, aimed it, and squeezed off two shots. One shot missed completely, but the other struck Forsell right in the side of his head. The larger youth dropped without another word.

Critchley emerged from a clump of bushes a dozen or so yards away, slotting a fresh mag into his carbine. "Nice shot," the older man said to me, motioning towards Forsell's unmoving form. "We just took down 1st Platoon's best marksmen."

"Give me a hand, would you?" I grunted, pushing myself into a sitting-up position. "Son of a bitch nailed me right above my ass; I can't move my legs."

"Here," Critchley crouched down in front of me, holding out his arms to the side.

"A piggy-back ride? You've got to be joking."

"I could always leave you here, if you want," Critchley shrugged.

"Okay, okay…" I wrapped my left arm around the SWAT veteran's neck, holding my carbine in my right.

Well, it wasn't a complete piggy-back ride, to be technical; Critchley wasn't holding my legs. I was holding myself up against the older man's back as he moved through the woods, my legs dragging behind me.

We ran into another 1st Platoon recruit on the way back to the southern hill. He seemed surprised to see us when we ran into him. We didn't give him a chance to cry out, though. Two shots—one from my carbine, the other from Critchley's—slammed right into the man's chest. He dropped without another sound.

Most of 1st Platoon had slipped past us during our skirmish with Jenkins and Forsell; we could hear the weaponsfire up ahead. I checked my COM as we neared the southern hill to see how many recruits were still up and running. My heart started to beat faster when I saw that my platoon had lost twenty-two men—no, twenty-_three_ men, now. If we lost one more, 1st Platoon won.

1st Platoon, however, was also down twenty. Even though they were only facing the remnants of Habel's and Carrol's squads on the hill, 1st Platoon was still taking hell.

Finally, the firefight came into sight. I could see my fellow recruits from 2/B and 2/C firing down the slope from behind trees and downed logs. The sixteen survivors in 1st Platoon were steadily beating them back, however. Several of my mates were already hit; it was only a matter of time before they were finished off. This had to end _now_. And Critchley and I were the ones who were going to end it.

"I'm going to take cover in between those two pines over there," Critchley motioned towards a pair of trees up ahead. They would give us good cover from any retaliatory fire coming in from 1st Platoon's men. "All we have to do is take out four men, Garris. We can do this."

"Damn right, we can," I agreed with the older man. Adrenaline began to pump as Critchley moved towards the trees. We were going to win this. We _had_ to; failure simply was not an option.

It came out of nowhere, taking me completely by surprise. Surprise…that was the single thing that flashed through my mind in the brief second of consciousness I had after I felt no less than five TTR rounds slam into my back. I was thrown off of Critchley's back and onto the ground by the force of the impacts.

I didn't even feel tired before losing consciousness; the sedative in the TTR paint worked that fast. I just fell into darkness, swift and simple. However, right before I lost consciousness, I could faintly hear Critchley screaming, "_Stisen, you fucking idiot!_"


	6. I Chapter 6: Competition

Chapter Six: Competition

**January 16, 2525 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

I was in a somewhat sour mood. It had only been three days since the live-fire exercise in the forest, in which my platoon was pitted against 1st Platoon. To win, a platoon had to take down two-thirds of the opposing force. That meant that my platoon would have had to take down twenty-four of 1st Platoon's recruits to win.

Well, it didn't exactly happen that way. We had been close, so goddamn close… Critchley, one of the oldest members of my platoon, as well as the best shot, and I had ended up behind 1st Platoon's advance, and we were about to tear into their rear. All we had to do was take down four more of their men to win the exercise; that would have been child's play.

However, right when we had been about to open fire, Stisen's Alpha Squad, which had been on the other side of the creek, suddenly arrived. They mistook Critchley and me for 1st Platoon recruits and ended up shooting me on impulse. Even though it was friendly fire, it still counted as a hit. Unfortunately, I was casualty number twenty-four, and 2/A's mistake lost 2nd Platoon the exercise.

I wasn't too bent out of shape over it. Personally, I'm just glad Sergeant Byrne wasn't around to see it happen.

And speaking of Byrne, he and Johnson still weren't back. It was starting to become a topic of frequent discussion around the compound. Captain Ponder kept us hard at work, probably to keep our minds from wandering too much, but everyone was now starting to question their absence.

Ponder had said a while back they were off on 'official business' for the Harvest Government. No one really believed it anymore, but no one wanted to question the Captain either.

Right now, I was lying on my belly in the rifle range, aiming at one of the more distant targets. Although I tried not to pay too much attention to the distractions that could arise around me, I could not help but notice that the recruit next to me was doing noticeably better than me on every shot.

I glanced over at the recruit to see his face. It was Forsell, the tall, blond-haired, Nordic-looking recruit from 1/A. He was one the best shots in 1st Platoon. He was a quiet man, not usually saying much. He wasn't silent to the degree that Worthington was—saying about two or three words every few days—but he was certainly on the opposite end of the spectrum from 'talkative'.

"Hey, Forsie," I said to him, not taking my gaze off of my sights, "can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"You mind telling me how you can shoot so well?"

Forsell fired off another shot from his carbine. I heard the faint _ping_ of the round striking the titanium bullseye on the target which the other recruit had been aiming at. "You're not the first to ask me that. My friend Jenkins was curious as well."

"And…?" I prompted him.

"I just watch the wind," was all Forsell said in reply.

I held back a sigh and kept pressing. "What do you mean?"

"Your sights are off," Forsell explained. He held out a hand, motioning towards my carbine. I flicked on the safety and gave it to him. "Watch," he told me. He pointed to the ironsights on the M6J. "This is how the sights were when you first received the weapon. The way the sights are set up here is good for an indoor firing range. It is perfectly straight. Here, you have to adjust for wind."

"By how much?"

"Not very much," Forsell shrugged. "The wind isn't very strong today, but it's enough to make your shot arc… I would nudge it to the side a bit, like so," the blond-haired 1st Platoon recruit pinched the sights and twisted them ever so slightly to the right.

I took the carbine back and aimed it downrange again, flicking off the safety. I looked down the sights and acquired one of the more distant targets, aiming right for the center. The wind was blowing to the left, so I compensated a tiny bit before squeezing the trigger.

The carbine coughed, and I could hear the _ting_ of the round hitting the titanium bullseye. I raised an eyebrow, surprised at how easy the shot had been.

"You see?" Forsell prompted.

"That's a useful trick…" I murmured, aiming downrange at a new target.

"It's not a trick. It's exactly what a spotter does for a sniper," Forsell shrugged, turning back to his target. "Well, _part_ of what a spotter does for a sniper."

I opened fire, grinning with satisfaction as I heard another _ting_. My luck ran out on my third shot, however. The round hit somewhere on one of the target's outer rings. "What the-"

"Wind's changed," Forsell warned me. "You need to readjust."

With a sigh, I licked my index finger and held it up to the air. The wind _had_ changed, if only a little. Even so, it had changed enough to require another adjustment on the sights. Watching as Forsell tweaked his own carbine, I edged my sights ever so slightly back towards the other side. I took aim and fired, but the sights were still off.

Hearing my frustrated muttering, Forsell simply said, "It takes a few times to get the hang of it."

For him, maybe. For _me_, a 'few times' meant two hours of swearing, cursing, and uncomfortable fidgeting until I finally began to work out the pattern between the wind and the sights. I know, it sounds like an easy thing to get the hang of, but trust me; it isn't.

Working out the relationship between the wind and your sights was the easy part. The hard part was gauging how much you should tweak your sights based on the wind. If the wind changed direction, or if it blew harder, I would have to push the sights more. If the wind died down, though, I would then have to pull the sights back towards their 'zero' position.

As the afternoon drew on, I began to notice improvement in my accuracy. I was hearing a lot more _tings_ than I had ever heard before. Critchley eventually joined Forsell and me on the range, and he noticed my accuracy, too.

"Whatever you're taking, Garris, keep taking it," the SWAT veteran chuckled.

I wasn't quite matching Forsell shot for shot by the end of the afternoon, but I was coming close.

The next day, it was the same drill. Captain Ponder allowed me, Critchley, Werner, Lowell, and a few other recruits from 1st Platoon to use the range whilst he took the rest of the company out on a run. None of us were complaining; lying on our bellies was preferable to sweating under Epsilon Indi's glare while running.

We broke for lunch sometime around noon, but we were back on the range before too long.

When we all heard the sound of Ponder bringing the rest of the company back, we ceased fire and clustered over at the range computer's terminal, where we could see the results.

Critchley was the best shot out of us all, clocking in with a golden ninety-five percent accuracy. Forsell and Jenkins were neck-in-neck at eighty-nine and ninety. I had eighty-seven percent, and Werner just barely had me beat at eighty-eight.

As we congratulated each other, we nearly jumped at the splitting screech of a whistle, accompanied with the loud, harsh, Irish-accented voice that we all knew.

"_Vacation's over, gobshites!_"

* * *

The return of Sergeant Byrne sparked even more conversation than their disappearance. Everyone wanted to know where he had been, what he had been doing. I noticed that Byrne was walking with a limp. Whatever 'official business' he and Johnson had been carrying out for the Harvest Government, it certainly hadn't delivering mail to the outer farms.

I also noticed that Johnson, 1st Platoon's sergeant, was still absent. Byrne was alone.

When someone in my platoon worked up the cojones to ask Byrne where the hell he had been, the staff sergeant ordered us to push 'em out until we burned out enough 'curiosity calories'. After seventy or eighty push-ups, Byrne ordered us to cease. He probably had something in mind for us, which was why he didn't keep us at it until sundown.

"I was told that you excuses went and blew the live-fire exercise with Captain Ponder," Byrne said, resuming his one-sided conversation with us. "However, I was _also_ able to see the detailed results of the match. Garris!"

_Oh, shit…_

"Sir!" I replied as loud as I could, swearing my head off inside my mind.

"You were casualty number twenty-four, were you not?"

_Oh, SHIT!_

"Yes, sir!"

Byrne cocked a curious eyebrow, regarding me with some level of interest. "Your 'death' is what lost your platoon the match, recruit. Would you mind sharing with everyone exactly _how_ you died?"

"Sir…uh-" I stammered at first. A ray of hope shone through my mind; could it be that Byrne had it in for someone _else?_ I quickly swallowed and got my voice back. "I was tagged by someone from Alpha Squad, sir."

"Recruit Garris was taken down by friendly fire. _Friendly. Fire,_" Byrne repeated the last two words, accentuating and emphasizing them, pushing them right into our faces. "Of all the moronic, _imbecilic_ ways to cock up a live-fire exercise, you worthless shites decided it would be fun to shoot a teammate. Stisen, it was your squad which fucked up; you have anything to say?"

"It was a mistake, sir," Stisen replied, his face remaining stony and static. "They were mingled with 1st Platoon's forces and opening fire. One of my boys fired on reflex. It's not an excuse, but it's the reason."

"Goddamn _right_ it's not an excuse," Byrne snarled. "However, I am not going to punish you sods. Not yet. Instead, I will give you a chance to redeem yourselves tomorrow. Until then, girls, change back into your PT gear; we're running the Beach!"

* * *

Byrne's chance at redemption turned out to be a hand-to-hand match at the sandpit. There was a wide wooden beam that stretched over a sandpit which two recruits would have to stand on. The two recruits would be wielding pugil sticks. The object was for the recruits to try to knock their opponents off the beam. Sounded easy enough.

The past two days had been a blur. Staff Sergeant Byrne still obstinately refused to give any details concerning where he had been during his absence. Instead, he started drilling us harder than he had ever done before. My body was throbbing with protest every time I lay down to go to sleep at night.

It wasn't as bad as it had used to be, though. All of us in the militia company; we were able to endure much more than we had been able to back when we had first arrived for training. We were well on our way to becoming capable soldiers. The thought would have been even nicer if we had been becoming soldiers for a purpose.

Personally, I wanted to get into the UNSC Marine Corps, or maybe even sniper training on Reach. I was using the Harvest Militia as a way to get away from this planet. I had no intentions of spending the rest of my life on a cornfield. All of this training for the Harvest Militia; I knew that it was probably pointless. At least, it was pointless to push us to the degree that the staff sergeants were currently pushing us. Nothing ever happens here, and nothing probably ever will.

Byrne was supervising both of the platoons at the sandpit today. Recruits from both of our platoons would be facing off in the sandpit, two at a time. The first two to face off were Lawson from 1/C and Worthington from my squad.

It wasn't much of a contest, really. Lawson was a large man, but Worthington was a bear. Lawson jabbed forward with his pugil stick, but Worthington met the blow with his own stick, shoving the smaller man back.

Lawson never recovered his balance. As he teetered on the edge of the wooden beam, Worthington tapped him on his padded helmet with one end of his pugil stick, casually pushing him off. Lawson hit the sand. The whole match hadn't even lasted ten seconds.

Byrne gave an impassive grunt, nodding with approval at Worthington's performance. He then pointed at two more people from each platoon. "Osmo. Lowell. You're up."

Worthington hopped off the edge and into the sand, leaning the pugil stick against the wooden beam. He took off the padded helmet and mouth guard, which Doc Healy had forced us to wear, and tossed it to Lowell. He then walked out of the sandpit without so much as a slight nod to acknowledge his victory.

I clenched my mouth to suppress a yawn as Lowell and Osmo, an overweight, jumpy 1st Platoon recruit, began to spar. If Byrne saw me yawning…well, I didn't want to think about what might happen. The Irishman had a satanic level of creativity when it came to making our lives hell.

We started burning through the rest of the platoon as the day went on. As far as my squad's performance went, Carrol managed to knock his opponent into the sand with a sweep to the legs. Billings, ill-tempered and grouchy as he always was, simply shoved his pugil stick right into his opponent's chest and pushed him into the sand, pleasantries and finesse dispensed with.

Dempsey, however, had gone up against Tillman, one of 1st Platoon's fastest runners. The lithe Tillman had dodged and ducked all of Dempsey's initial blows before unbalancing Dempsey with a knock to the head and finally toppling him.

Several others in my squad were also knocked down, some were triumphant; it was about an even split.

Then, when nearly everyone in the company had already gone, my turn came.

"Garris! Andersen! Get on that beam!" Byrne barked at us.

Critchley, who had just succeeded in pushing a hapless 1st Platoon recruit from the beam, tossed me the helmet. I strapped it on and stepped into the sand.

Andersen stepped into the sand as well from the other side. He was a medium-sized man, not particularly large or muscular, nor was he fast and supple. All in all, he was average. I could live with average.

I grabbed the pugil stick and climbed up onto the beam. Andersen climbed onto the other end, holding his pugil stick in front of him, lowering himself into a ready stance.

"Make me proud, shiteface," Byrne growled.

Andersen attacked first, thrusting his pugil stick forward towards my face. Instinctively, I took a step back, evading the blow. Andersen stumbled a little bit, not expecting to encounter empty air where his strike was going. He grunted and tried again, but I took another step back.

"Take one more step back, shiteface, and I'll see to it that the last thing you'll ever see on this good earth is my boot going up your ass," Byrne warned me.

I took the hint and went on the offensive, lashing out at Andersen's helmet with one of the padded ends of my pugil stick. Andersen knocked my stick aside with his own, circling it around and forcing mine down. The sudden imbalance caused me to teeter on the edge of the beam.

I swore, windmilling my arms, trying with every fiber of my being to stay on the beam. Andersen struck again, and I jerked backwards, which partially restored my balance. I held my pugil stick out in front of me like a tightrope walker. It would have been better if I had weights hanging from the ends of the pugil stick, but the heavy foam pads on the ends still worked nicely. Holding the stick out with both hands shifted my center of gravity and helped me regain balance.

Andersen aimed a swipe towards my head again, but I was already half-crouching. All I needed to do to avoid the blow was duck a little more, which I did without hesitation. I could feel the air displacement of Andersen's pugil stick as it whipped right over my head. Before Andersen was even finished swinging, I brought my own pugil stick around, catching Andersen right in the back of the knees.

The 1st Platoon recruit saw it coming, but he was unable to do anything to avoid or stop it. His knee folded in and he swayed, teetering at the very edge of the beam. I swung the other end of the pugil stick around and jabbed Andersen in the chest, just hard enough to push him over. Andersen tumbled off the beam and into the sand with a muffled _oof_.

I hopped down into the sand to the sound of my 2nd Platoon mates cheering. I allowed myself a faint grin; this was probably my best way of righting the scales since I had gotten tagged during the live-fire exercise.

"Nicely done, Garris," Carrol clapped me on the shoulder as I rejoined my squad.

Next up were Jenkins and Stisen. The 2/A squad leader grunted in thanks as I tossed him the helmet and pugil stick, both of which he caught in each hand. He slid on his helmet and tossed the stick into the air, leaping up onto the beam, and catching the stick as it fell back down to the ground.

Stisen started the fight with a powerful overhead blow, but Jenkins blocked it with the center of his own stick. Stisen recovered from his failed first blow and swung again. Jenkins met the blow in a similar fashion, holding Stisen's pugil stick at bay with his own.

Stisen was a good deal stronger than Jenkins, unfortunately for the 1st Platoon sharpshooter. With the two men pressing their pugil sticks against each other, the match ceased to be a battle of reflexes and intelligence and it now became a battle of strength. Not that Stisen was lacking in reflexes or intelligence, but he definitely had Jenkins beat when it came to strength.

Stisen gritted his teeth, planted his feet, and heaved. Jenkins didn't exactly go flying, but he did come close to it. He hit the sand pretty hard. Hard enough to warrant Doc Healy's personal attention.

The blond-haired medic tapped the side of Jenkins's helmet, asking him basic questions like what the date was, how many fingers he was holding up, how to spell 'spaghetti', etc. etc.

Satisfied that Jenkins was all right, Healy helped him back up to his feet, giving Byrne a discreet nod.

"Alright, girls, time to finish this up!" Byrne barked at us. "Stisen, you stay up there. Forsell, you're up last. Go."

As Jenkins and Forsell swapped gear, Byrne gave a sharp whistle, getting everyone's attention. "Listen up!" he spoke up. "This is the title bout in our little tournament! Loser earns his platoon a week of KP!"

Our cheers instantly turned to groans. KP meant grueling time spent in the mess hall after every meal, cleaning out and stocking the food dispensers. I swear to God, Allah, Shiva—any one of those guys—that those food dispensers were purposefully designed to turn us into alcoholics.

Byrne's usually impassive face broke out into a wide grin at our displeasure, showing teeth. "So let's see some bloody fighting spirit!" he shouted, stepping back and gesturing for Stisen and Forsell to proceed.

The two recruits grunted, bumping the ends of their pugil sticks together. They started hitting away at each other in a flurry of opening blows, some of them too fast for the eye to follow. The beam creaked as they moved back and forth.

Stisen finally managed to score a hit, jabbing Forsell right in the chin. The heavier 1st Platoon recruit staggered back, swinging his pugil stick wildly. Stisen almost lazily took a step back, avoiding the blow. Forsell, meanwhile, lost his balance and was forced to step into the pit.

I cheered loudly for Stisen's success, along with the rest of my platoon. Byrne, however, didn't seem amused. I sucked in a breath between my teeth; Byrne seemed to be getting pretty impatient with the whole taking-a-step-backward ploy.

Byrne stepped into the sandpit, walking over to Stisen. "Only thing you get backing up is a boot up your ass. So stop. Messing._ Around!_" the staff sergeant growled, smacking the side of Stisen's helmet with each syllable.

"Yes, Staff Sergeant!" Stisen roared through clenched teeth.

"Alright, you bastards!" Byrne stepped back out of the sandpit. "_Kill, kill, kill!_"

Again, Stisen and Forsell clashed. Unlike their first match, when they had engaged with a flurry of blows, this time the two men drove right into each other, each pushing against the other's pugil stick. It was exactly what had happened between Stisen and Jenkins.

The difference here was that Forsell was stronger, heavier, and more solid than Jenkins. This time, in a show of strength, Forsell had the edge over Stisen. I raised a curious eyebrow as I watched the two men push and push at each other, their feet sliding across the beam as they tried to gain purchase.

Suddenly, Stisen pulled away, causing Forsell to stumble forward. The 2/A squad leader followed up with a mighty swing towards Forsell's head, but the young 1st Platoon recruit tucked his chin to his shoulder and somehow managed to absorb the blow.

Stisen clearly hadn't expected Forsell to withstand the hit, for he did not leave any viable means of defense in lieu of that blow. After Forsell took the hit, he lashed out before Stisen could recover, hitting the constable right in the ribs. Stisen was knocked sideways clean off the beam.

Forsell waved his pugil stick in the air in a victory celebration as 1st Platoon started cheering.

Stisen picked himself up off the ground, giving a nonchalant shrug as if to say _lucky shot_. That solicited a round of boos and jeers from 1st Platoon that persisted even as Byrne tried to quiet us down.

"You all want to slaver on?" Byrne exclaimed. "Let's hear you count to fifty!"

With a disgruntled sigh, I joined my platoonmates in grinding out our fifty-push up punishment.

As I started pushing them out, I noticed that I could hear the faint hum of a nearby warthog engine, along with the crunch of tires driving over gravel. I tried to look over, difficult as this action was while doing a push-up, and was able to see a warthog pulling into the gravel lot at the front of the compound.

Byrne glanced the warthog as well. He turned back to us briefly to ensure that none of us had stopped doing our push-ups, and then walked off in the direction of the nearby gravel lot where the warthog had now parked.

I tried to keep looking, but I gave up after a few more seconds and returned to finishing my fifty. I was one of the first to finish, and I sprang back up to my feet when I did.

Staff Sergeant Johnson was back. He and Captain Ponder were the ones who had climbed out of the warthog. I watched as the two Staff Sergeants met, exchanging a firm handshake.

That was surprising. I had _never_ seen Johnson and Byrne exchange friendly gestures like that. We all knew Johnson and Byrne's history from Operation: TREBUCHET, and, in my opinion, Byrne had every right to hate Johnson. Something had changed between them. Something had to have happened to the two while they were off on their 'official business'.

Whatever the Staff Sergeants and our Captain had been saying was lost on us. We could tell that it had been unsettling, whatever it was. After shaking his opposite's hand, Byrne turned on his heel, quick-stepping back over to the sandpit.

"2nd Platoon, on your feet!" our Staff Sergeant bellowed. "We are _running_ to the range!"

_Good. More shooting._

Stisen, who was still on the beam, pulled off his helmet in irritation. "But who won?" he asked.

Stisen did not have a chance to say anything else. Without a moment's hesitation, Forsell swept his pugil stick behind Stisen's knees, knocking the constable right back into the sand. Both platoons erupted into an even split of _boo_s and cheers. It was fairly obvious which platoons the _boo_s and the cheers were coming from.

"Not you, gobshite," Byrne snarled in response to Stisen's inquiry, hauling the stunned constable to his feet. "Platoon! Move out! Double-time!"

2nd Platoon squared itself away and followed Byrne back across the compound towards the rifle range, moving at moderate jog.

"Any ideas on what's got the sergeants' panties in a bunch?" Omar spoke up, voicing the opinion of everyone else in my squad.

"Who gives a flying fuck, Omar?" Billings growled. "We got fuckin' KP for a goddamn _week,_ now."

And with that admonishment, most curious thoughts of the Staff Sergeants' disappearance was gone, replaced with a weary resignation at the prospect of cleaning out those damned food dispensers.

Ah, well… nothing to do about it now but take it all out on the range targets.


	7. I Chapter 7: Exercise

Chapter Seven: Exercise

**February 9, 2525 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

Epsilon Indi was out in all its glory today. The meteorologists were calling for thunderstorms in this area tomorrow, which meant that the time right before the thunderstorms came—right _now_—was going to be especially hot. I'd wager that Epsilon Indi _knew_ that it was going to be ousted by clouds tomorrow, so now it was just trying even harder to make our lives hot, miserable, and sticky in the time it had left.

I slapped at the gnats that kept on trying to dive-bomb my eyes. Thin rivulets of sweat made their way down my neck and into the back of my uniform, where I was sure I was sporting a sizable wet spot. It was _hot_.

We were in the middle of our second live-fire exercise. This exercise was taking place in the middle of nowhere, unlike our last one which had taken place in the forest. The only structure for miles around was a tall, two-tiered tower that was Harvest's reactor complex, as well as the data center for Mack, the agricultural operations AI of Harvest.

The tower looked almost like a wedding cake; it was completely cylindrical, with its upper section having a smaller diameter than the lower part, giving it the appearance of a tiered cake. It was also the structure which we would be defending.

The reactor complex was boxed in by a series of concrete walls, and the entire compound was fenced off on all sides.

This exercise was also very different from our first in that it was not platoon vs. platoon. In this exercise, 1st Platoon had united with my platoon. All seventy-two of us would be fighting Johnson and Byrne, our sergeants. To win the exercise, one side had to wipe out fifty percent of the other. To win, the sergeants would have to tag thirty-six of us…while all _we_ had to do was tag _one_ of them.

This made me nervous. The odds were tipped ridiculously far in our favor…and that couldn't mean anything good for us. Whenever you see the odds tipped far in the favor of one side, it was usually the other side that had some sort of surprise that enabled them to easily crush their numerically-superior enemies. I guess we would just have to hope that the seventy-two of us combined could scrounge up enough luck to take out one of the two sergeants early.

I was stationed with the rest of my squad on the west fence. We had been sitting here for hours.

With the odds so heavily stacked in our favor, everyone had expected Byrne and Johnson to attack early, before we could get settled and organized. At 0900, nine in the morning, we had all downed breakfast and roared over here in our warthogs. Once we all had arrived at the reactor complex, we quickly divided into our squads and rushed to different sectors of the complex.

Adrenaline had been running high, then. We were ready for the sergeants, we wanted to start shooting at anything we saw.

Maybe that was why the sergeants didn't show up early. We had been so pumped when we first arrived… if they had showed up, all that raging adrenaline would have just been channeled against the sergeants. Now, it was close to 1700 hours, not too much longer until sunset. We were all hot, sweaty; tired of sitting in the same place all afternoon…our mojo had been drained. Even though we were now well organized, the sergeants would not be facing the fresh-faced, eager, bloodthirsty militia recruits from eight hours ago. They would be fighting cramped, grumpy, fatigued men.

The only break in the monotonous day had been a trio of JOTUN cropduster planes lazily making their way across the fields to the west of us, giving the crops a dusting of fungicide. Once, the cropdusters had made a pass so close to the reactor complex that the white cloud of fungicide had rolled through like a dust storm. Only the western fence got hit, though…lucky us.

The fungicide chemicals were not hazardous to breathe, though, so we were never in any danger. All of our coughing and muttering was just because of our long wait in the sun.

"How much do you all wanna bet that the Sarges are probably lyin' back in some Utgard bar, havin' a cold one right now while we sweat our balls off?" Rosen posed the question, mercifully breaking the silence.

"They're probably waiting for you dumb fucks to start talking like that," Billings grumbled. "Right when you start thinking they're just dicking around, they'll show up and tear you a new asshole with TTR because you weren't paying attention."

"Jesus...no need to be an asshole about it…" Rosen rolled his eyes turning back towards the fence.

"Assholes survive, dumbasses like you wind up dead," Billings shot back.

"That's enough," Carrol interrupted them both, restoring peace. "Johnson and Byrne are most likely observing from a distance. They will strike when they see fit, not when it is simply convenient."

"And God help us all when they do…" Omar murmured.

"Oh, come on…" Dempsey snorted. "You really think those two assholes are going to be able to take on all seventy-two of us? I mean, all we have to do is get one of them. _One_."

"Now you're underestimating them," Kaczynski pointed out. "It's always the dude who underestimates the other dude who gets-"

"I'm not underestimating; it's seventy versus freakin' _two!_"" Dempsey nearly exploded. "How the hell are they gonna-"

"I said _enough!_" Carrol barked. That shut everyone up; Carrol _never_ raised his voice. "I don't want to hear another word on what the sergeants are doing. They'll show up when they show up, and when they do _we'll_ be ready."

The afternoon drew on and on. Nothing ever happened. Occasionally a recruit would make a comment or two over the open COM channel, but the squad leaders were always quick to put a stop to that. When one recruit had suggested something similar to Rosen's theory of the sergeants sitting back and enjoying a beer, Doc Healy had come onto the channel and told us all to 'shut it'. As long as we kept hydrated, we'd be fine, he said.

A JOTUN heavy combine eventually appeared after another hour or so. It was huge—fifty meters tall, one hundred and fifty meters long. I had no idea what type it was—I had lived my childhood and teenage years on the streets of Utgard, having next to no exposure to the farms that made up so much of Harvest—but several of the other recruits started a quiet argument over whether the combine was a series four or a series five.

Finally, it was decided that it was a series-five. I didn't really care what type it was; that sucker looked like it would be able to chew through our fence without even trying.

It made us nervous the first or second time it made a close pass to the reactor complex, but afterwards we paid it little heed. Gradually, it made its way past us until it started tilling through the fields to the east of the reactor complex, out of our view.

The monotony was finally broken by a company-wide transmission. "_All squads! Got a vehicle coming in!_"

I recognized the voice as Forsell's, one of 1st Platoon's sharpshooters. He and Jenkins were holed up at the very top of the reactor tower. Our own sharpshooters, Critchley and Werner, were stationed on the northern edge of the first story of the reactor tower. Their job was to cover Jenkins and Forsell's backs.

Critchley and Jenkins, the two best shots in the entire company, had both been given new weapons called BR55s. Johnson and Byrne had brought them back from their absence, wherever they had been. They were more powerful and accurate than either the M6J or the MA5. Unfortunately, we only had four of the rifles. The other two BR55s were being used by Johnson and Byrne.

"_This a joke, Forsell?_" that was Stisen. Ever since his defeat in the pugil-stick exercise, the squad leader of 2/A had been more abrasive than usual, if that was even possible. "_It's too hot for any of your bullshit._"

"_See for yourself_."

All of us raised our heads and looked south towards the complex entrance. Sure enough, a green and white taxi sedan was making its way up along the access road, heading right for the front gate.

"Look sharp!" Stisen bellowed from behind the sandbags which were piled on both sides of the gate. "Dass, give me some cover!"

Dass, the leader of 1/A, got his boys up and moving, directing them to focus their aim towards the taxi. His squad was the one stationed on the actual reactor tower in the center of the complex, so it had the best field of view.

"_Just make sure they watch what they shoot,_" Stisen growled over the COM. The constable had a somewhat valid point; if 1/A had to open fire at the taxi, they would be shooting right over 2/A's heads.

"_Do your job, Sitsen, and you won't have anything to worry about,_" Dass responded. You could tell the 1/A squad leader was a father; he spoke in that firm, patient tone that only a man who has to live with small children knows.

"Look alive, boys," Carrol whispered to us. "Garris, Lowell; I want you on top of that vehicle until it leaves."

"Yes, sir," I nodded. I shouldered my M6J and zeroed in on the approaching taxi. At this range, it would be difficult to land a good shot…but that didn't mean I wasn't going to try if the need arose. Not for the first time, I wish I had one of those BR55 rifles. I wasn't all that bummed over not having one, though; Critchley could do a lot more with it than I would be able to.

Stisen broke cover and marched out to the center of the gate. Feet planted wide, he raised his left hand and spread it out in the universal _stop_ gesture. The sedan slowed and came to a halt twenty meters in front of Stisen. For a few moments, there was silence. The car did not move, and the recruits did not challenge it.

Stisen leveled his MA5 at the windshield and ordered the driver to get out of the vehicle, but nothing happened. The car doors didn't open, nor did it move back. The constable, unfazed, sent four members of his squad forward to secure the vehicle. He ordered Burdick, one of the four recruits, to pop the door.

The four recruits edged warily towards the car doors. Burdick tentatively grasped the driver door's handle, but he got no farther. The moment his hand made contact, all four car doors sprang open. There was a blinding explosion of light, accompanied with the sound of shattering glass. When it cleared, Burdick and two others were lying motionless on the road, all three of them splattered with red TTR paint, as if they had been torn through by shrapnel.

One of the four recruits had just barely managed to evade getting neutralized; he limped away, dragging a paralyzed leg behind him. "_Claymores!_" he was shouting.

Stisen grabbed the recruit, throwing an arm over his shoulder, and pulled him back towards the gate defenses, ordering his squad to fall back behind the sandbags. Doc Healy slipped in and pulled the three downed recruits off the road while all this was happening.

"Car's empty, sir," I reported to Carrol. "Nothing for me to shoot at, except-"

I was interrupted by a loud commotion from the east side of the complex. The recruits of 1/B, who were stationed along the east fence, were all shouting—we could hear them clearly from our side of the complex.

"Andersen, what's going on over there?" Carrol shouted into the COM.

"_The combine! It isn't turning!_" Andersen, the leader of 1st Platoon's Bravo Squad, cried.

"Garris, check the east side!" Carrol motioned for me to move.

"Yes, sir!" I sprang to my feet and sprinted past my squadmates up and around the compound to the northeastern corner of the perimeter fence square. I found myself among the members of 2/C, Habel's squad, who were assigned to the compound's northern fence. They paid no attention to me; they were all watching what was happening at the eastern fence.

I watched in horror as the series-five combine, which had been tilling fields to the east, barreled right into the eastern fence, ramming right through the metal chain links like they were made of paper. Andersen's squad was a mess; they had all retreated from the fence before the JOTUN had hit, but now they were milling about and disorganized.

The JOTUN was completely covered in red TTR paint, evidence of 1/B's failed attempt to bring it to a stop. I studied the JOTUN with wild eyes, raising my M6J and looking frantically for one of the sergeants. Someone _had_ to be around that combine.

Recruits from all directions were still firing wildly towards the JOTUN, even though no one had spotted either staff sergeant. I didn't open fire; my M6J would not make any significant contribution to the firestorm of TTR the others were laying down on the JOTUN.

As I tried to adjust my aim, I briefly saw something flash through the air. It was a dark, round object, and it landed somewhere around the reactor tower. In the second it took me to process what it had been, the grenade exploded.

The blast was a lot quieter than the claymores from the sedan, but it was still pretty damn loud. More shouts and confused exclamations rose up, both shouted and over the COM.

From what I could glean out of the COM chatter, most of 1/A was now gone. 1st Platoon's Alpha Squad had been stationed on and around the reactor tower; now they were all gone, with the exception of Forsell and Jenkins.

No, scratch that, Osmo—another member of 1/A—was still alive, too, along with a few others; I recognized his high-pitched, squeaky tones over the COM. Still…six or seven losses from 1/A, along with the three neutralized from Stisen's squad amounted up to nearly a full squad of recruits. We were only facing two men, but they had just wiped out a sixth of our entire force.

Suddenly, we spotted movement. I recognized Staff Sergeant Byrne's wiry frame anywhere; the Irishman had positioned himself between the first and second body segments of the JOTUN combine.

Amidst the confusion, 1/C was ordered to join my squad at the western fence in order to clear up Stisen's squad's line of fire at Byrne. I didn't pay much attention to this, however; things were getting really hairy over here on the east side. I adjusted my aim and acquired Byrne in my ironsights. I squeezed off a few shots, but they all went wide, spattering against the JOTUN's enormous wheels.

I wasn't the only one shooting at him, though. Though he was never hit, Byrne was forced to abandon his already-risky position by the sheer volume of TTR that was coming his way. He swung himself over the ladder and started descending towards the ground.

Just when I was about to turn away to head back to my squad at the western fence and report back to Carrol, the COM started squawking again. Jenkins was shouting, "_I got him, I got him!_" over the COM.

I watched as Byrne slid down the ladder set into the JOTUN's side and rolled between the wheels. That position would give him adequate cover from the crossfire coming from Stisen and Habel's squads, as well as the remnants of Andersen's 1/B. He hadn't been hit once.

"_Like hell, you do!_" Stisen retorted over the COM. "_Critchley! Come to front!_"

Though Byrne was under cover, he wasn't exactly pinned down. I saw muzzle flashes from his BR55 every few seconds. The recruit in front of me had time only to cry out in surprise before he crumpled to the ground, TTR splattered across his helmet.

I dove away from the downed recruit, desperately trying to get out of Byrne's sights. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had been aiming at _me_, wanting to take out one of the militia's best shots.

"_I said I got him!_" Jenkins started to say, but Stisen cut him off again.

"_Shut it, Jenkins!_" the constable snapped. "_Critchley, respond!_"

There was silence. The SWAT veteran wasn't saying a word. I swung around and looked up at the northern edge of the reactor tower, where Critchley and Werner were originally stationed. In an instant, I took in their motionless forms; both had a single red stain on the sides of their helmets. They were down for the count.

"Critchley and Werner are down!" I shouted into my own COM. "I repeat: Critchley is gone!"

"_So is all of 1/C_…" Forsell murmured over the COM. The 1st Platoon sharpshooter sounded shocked.

"_What?_" Stisen exclaimed.

"_We've lost everyone on the western fence!_" Forsell cried. "_1/C is all gone and 2/B has been driven back!_"

My stomach churned as I took in this news. 2/B under attack…my squad had been routed. If Carrol hadn't ordered me north, I would have probably been a goner; I had been sitting out in the open the whole time, scanning the perimeter. With all of these new losses, I realized that we had to have around twenty-five to thirty casualties. The sergeants were still untouched.

It occurred to me that we probably had only a minute or so left before the two sergeants crushed us.

"_Stisen, I'm moving to the back!_" Jenkins reported over the COM.

"_No, goddamnit!_" Stisen swore, countermanding the 1st Platoon sharpshooter. "_Habel! Shift west! It's gotta be Johnson!_"

I ignored the rest of the COM transmissions and shouldered my M6J. Habel's 2/C was on their feet, now, heading west along the northern fence. I went with them; we were going to find out what the hell was going on at the western fence.

The moment we rounded the corner, a hail of TTR came speeding our way. Two of Habel's men were hit, falling where they stood.

I spotted the dark form of Staff Sergeant Johnson and opened fire. He was already rolling left, however, so I couldn't pin him down. I fell back with the rest of 2/C before Johnson could drop anymore of us, putting the curvature of the tower in between us and the staff sergeant.

While Habel got things squared away here, I broke off, heading back around the north side of the tower. I wanted to climb up and grab Critchley's BR55; if I moved fast enough, I would probably be able to take out Byrne before Johnson could tear into anyone else. It probably wouldn't work, but hey; it was a plan, right?

I found one of the ladders and pulled myself up. I flinched as TTR spattered the walls to my right. Byrne was firing at me. I climbed up as fast as I could, praying that the splatter wouldn't hit my torso.

That was one of the drawbacks of TTR; the splatter of the paint could neutralize you even if the round didn't actually hit you. So if you were standing around the corner of the wall and a TTR round hit the edge of that wall, you would be taken down if the splatter of the paint still hit you.

I reached the top of the first story roof and dragged myself over the edge. I crawled over to the curved wall and hunkered down for a second, regaining my breath. I then started making my way back around the north edge, searching for Critchley.

I knew that Forsell and Jenkins were still up here, too. Maybe if I was lucky, I could link up with them. However, just as I was nearing Critchley's last location, I heard the sound of weapons discharge, followed by a low grunt. The grunt had been Forsell, of that I had no doubt. Forsell was down and Johnson was on the first-story roof as well.

I found Critchley and Werner at the northernmost point on the first story roof. I reached for Critchley's BR55, which was lying next to the SWAT veteran, but instantly jerked back when a TTR round slammed into my arm. My left arm instantly went limp.

I swore, throwing myself back. Johnson appeared around the curve of the wall, aiming his M6 pistol right at me. The dark-skinned man's finger tightened around the trigger and squeezed.

However, just as he fired, he stumbled. His shots went wide, striking me in the legs rather than in the chest. The only limb I could now move was my right arm.

Staff Sergeant Johnson had been hit from behind by three rounds of TTR. His right leg had been paralyzed, which had caused him to stumble right when he was firing at me.

I raised my carbine with my one good arm and squeezed off several shots towards Johnson, but the staff sergeant was already gone. I realized that it must have been Jenkins who had crippled him, so I started pulling myself around the west curve of the second-story wall with my one good arm. Maybe I could surprise Johnson from behind; he probably thought he had neutralized me, rather than just severely wounding.

I kept on pulling myself along, but I never made it in time. By the time I caught sight of Johnson and Jenkins once more, the exercise was over.

"_Cease fire, cease fire!_" Captain Ponder's voice was booming over the loudspeakers.

"_Staff Sergeant Byrne, you have been hit. Final score: thirty-four to one. Congratulations, recruits!_" Ponder concluded.

From what I could hear of the COM chatter, it had been Osmo who had managed to fire off a lucky shot that, somehow, had hit Byrne. Maybe it had only been a splatter-shot, maybe it had been direct; it didn't matter. Byrne had been hit, and that was that. I could hardly believe it. I had been so sure of our defeat.

That was one of the major parts of warfare, I supposed. Skill went a long way, but sometimes it just came down to luck.

The initial euphoria of victory now passed, I pulled myself up to the edge of the roof and looked down. Carrol, Worthington, and Ricketts were all standing down there, giving each other congratulatory claps on the back. The rest of my squad—Dempsey, Billings, everyone else—was scattered on the ground, all of them unconscious.

"Uh, excuse me," I cleared my throat, getting their attention.

"Garris?" Carrol looked up, utterly surprised. "Where the hell have you been?"

"How about you help me down from here and I'll tell you?"

_Goddamn TTR_…


	8. I Chapter 8: Movie Night

Chapter Eight: Movie Night

**February 9, 2525 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

Captain Ponder had ordered the cooks to whip up something special for us tonight, in lieu of our close victory over Byrne and Johnson at the reactor. The dinner was legit, this time; Byrne and Johnson didn't come barreling in halfway through and make us run the Beach. We could eat in relative peace. We all filed into the mess hall, collected our grub, and ate.

The mess hall was filled with chatter and laughter. We were all in high spirits. The thirty-four recruits who had been knocked out during the exercise were successfully revived in time for dinner. Their comrades were busy filling the details of the match which they would have missed.

"I don't even remember getting knocked out," Dempsey was saying. "One moment I'm shooting at Johnson, the next I'm waking up in Doc Healy's infirmary."

"Well, you got plastered right in the forehead," Omar reminded him. "You were probably out before you even felt the impact."

"What about Junior, over there?" Billings grunted, motioning towards me with his head. "Never came back after Carrol told him to check the east fence. Where the hell were you, boy?"

"Got caught under fire by Byrne with our Charlie Squad," I answered in between bites.

"You get tagged, or what?"

"Mm-mm," I grunted, pausing to wash my latest mouthful down with a drink of blueberry juice. "We heard over the COM that the western fence was getting sodomized by Johnson, so Habel shifted his boys west to try to catch the Sarge in a crossfire…didn't exactly work out, though. Me, I climbed the tower and grabbed Critchley's BR55—well, I _tried_ to. I wanted to see if I could snipe Byrne before Johnson could wreak anymore havoc."

"What, you run into Johnson?" Omar asked.

"You could say that," I nodded. "He had me. He literally _had_ me, dead in his sights. Then the moment he fires…" I hesitated, grinning as I relived the moment. "The moment Johnson fires, Jenkins—1st Platoon's sharpshooter—comes up out o' _nowhere_ and pops Johnson right in the leg. So I only get hit in my legs and my arm, not my vitals."

"Oh, that _blows_, man," Omar chuckled.

"Anyway, I tried crawling around the tower to give Jenkins a hand, but the match was over by the time I got there; someone went and managed to hit Byrne."

"Yeah, I heard that Byrne got hit, too," Kaczynski echoed. "Anyone know who managed to pop him?"

"It was Osmo, one of Dass's 1/A boys," Carrol replied. "He got Byrne."

"Well, he didn't _really_ get him," Ricketts argued, twirling his fork between two fingers. "He accidentally hit the tire Byrne was hiding behind at the right angle and the splatter from the TTR round got the Sarge. It was luck."

"Luck's all it takes, sometimes," I shrugged.

Dinner went on as usual; everyone stuffing their faces, and then managing to insult and jab at their squadmates at the same time. It was an art, but soldiers performed it flawlessly. At sixteen, I was by far the youngest recruit-not only in my squad, but in the entire militia company. Still, I prided myself with the fact that I was not an easy target in our little jabber sessions.

Throughout the entire meal, I began to notice that our commanders—Ponder, Johnson, Byrne—were not joining in the festivities. I mean, sure, that was to be expected of them; you couldn't have DIs getting all buddy-buddy with the men whose lives they were reshaping, but still…they looked ill at ease. They looked the same way they had looked after Johnson and Ponder had returned from Utgard after the pugil-stick competition.

I shrugged finally and turned away. Whatever was bothering them was not bothering me, and I refused to allow it to. Hell, the next time we got a meal like this would probably be in a few years. Or the day Worthington spoke more than five words.

"So, I don't know about any of you guys, but haven't you ever wondered why the hell we're getting trained like freakin' marines?" Dempsey spoke up after a few minutes of idle conversation. "I mean, knowing how to fight is all well and good, but come on; this is _Harvest_. _Nothing_ happens here. What are the Innies gonna do; attack our cornfields?"

"They've always pushed us hard, but ever since the Sarges got back from their little vacation they've been pushing us into overdrive," Davis agreed.

I was about to say something to add into the conversation, but just as I opened my mouth, the lights in the mess hall dimmed. That was the signal for silence. In less than five seconds, the entire space, which had only moments before been bursting with laughter and buzzing excitement, fell eerily silent.

"Good evening, recruits," Captain Ponder greeted us, rising from his chair and standing in front of the kitchen window in the rear of the mess hall.

"Good evening, Captain," seventy-two voices, including mine, chorused.

"You threw up a good exercise at the reactor complex, today, recruits," Ponder began. "Some of you showed true initiative and quick thinking out there. None of you completely lost your head, either. A month and a half ago, when you first arrived here, you would never have been able to do anywhere near as well as you did today. You all should be proud."

The Captain's words filled us all with a fiery pride. We had accomplished something good, earlier today. Sure, the sergeants had nearly wiped us all out, and we won only through a lucky splatter-shot…but those were just details. We had still won. Victory was everything.

"Staff Sergeants Johnson and Byrne had to leave for eleven days back in January, as I'm sure all of you remember," Ponder continued.

My throat tightened as he brought this up; was he finally going to reveal what the hell they had been doing during that time? Everyone had been wondering with animalistic fervor where the sergeants had been earlier, but now those feelings had been dulled by our recent victory at the reactor complex. Now, Ponder's statement had brought those feelings kicking and screaming back into the light.

"I believe it's high-time I explained to you what they were doing."

_Jackpot…_

Murmurs rose all throughout the mess hall as the recruits realized what Ponder was getting at.

"I have told you that Byrne and Johnson were off on official business for the Harvest Government. As I'm sure you've all deduced by now, this was a lie. It was a necessary lie; the nature of Byrne and Johnson's mission was, and still is, highly, _highly_ classified. However, recent events have prompted me to reveal the truth," Captain Ponder declared, pausing briefly to clear his throat. "The truth is quite simple, really. Hostile extraterrestrials have found Harvest, and it is your—_our_—job to deal with this situation until help arrives from the UNSC."

_Um…what?_

No one moved. This was a whole new level of silence; before, we had just lowered our voices so that Ponder could speak without being obstructed. Now…there was absolutely no sound or movement at all. All seventy-two of us sat at our tables, rock-still as statues. Had I not been too mind-locked to actually notice it, it would have been extremely unnerving.

In hindsight, I think it was a miracle that none of us stood up, marched right out of the room, and never came back. I would actually bet that a good number of us—me included—were about to do just that when Stisen finally spoke up and shattered the silence.

"We the only ones who know, sir?" the constable asked.

"Just about," Captain Ponder nodded.

"Can we tell our families?"

"Afraid not."

Stisen sucked in a breath through clenched teeth for a moment, but he regained his composure and pressed on. "You want us to lie," the 2/A squad leader hissed, glancing at everyone else in the mess hall before returning his accusing glare to the Captain. "Like _you've_ been lying to _us_."

A vein pulsed in Staff Sergeant Byrne's temple and the Irishman started to leap out of his seat, but Ponder held out an arm.

"If we'd told you the truth—that we were expecting aliens, not Innies—would it have made a difference? Would you have refused to serve?" Captain Ponder posed the question in the same calm, straightforward manner which he was so well known for.

Would I have refused to serve? That was really a tough question. I wasn't serving out of any desire for glory or honor—people who did that winded up dead real fast. I was serving because I had nowhere to go on Harvest. I mean, come on; I'm a sixteen-year-old orphan with no relations whatsoever, stuck on the most remote world in the UNSC. I wanted out. I wanted to join the Marines, or the Navy—anything that would get me off of this rock. The first step to doing that, I felt, was to serve some time with the colonial militia.

By doing that, however, I really didn't expect to run into any….hitches. Again, this is _Harvest_. The most remote colony in the UNSC; nothing ever happens here. An Insurrectionist incursion was the last thing _any_ of us would expect…now that we had just been told that we were about to encounter freakin' _aliens_… I really couldn't answer Ponder's question. Aliens could get you killed, and I wanted to _live_…but at the same time, if I just up and left the service, how would I ever be able to leave Harvest? I was caught between a hammer and an anvil.

As the rest of us processed these difficult thoughts, the Captain kept on speaking.

"Your friends and neighbors aren't in any less danger," he said. "You're the only protection they've got." Then, nodding at the Staff Sergeants: "We've trained you. You're ready."

"For what, sir? Exactly?" Dass was the next to speak up.

Captain Ponder gave Doc Healy a discreet nod. The medic, who had been standing behind us by the entrance, unnoticed, closed the doors to the mess hall, killed the fluorescent lights, and powered up the wall-mounted video display.

"I'll tell you everything we know," the Captain assured us.

The wall-mounted projector splayed its images up on the opposite wall, almost like a movie theater. We all watched raptly as the display settled down into what seemed to be footage from a helmet camera. I spotted Byrne in the image, so it had to be Staff Sergeant Johnson's camera.

They were in what looked like the main hold of a DCS freighter. Johnson's camera was pointed right at the far bulkhead where a cascade of sparks was falling to the floor as something tried to burn through from the other side.

A section of the bulkhead crashed to the floor with a resounding _clang_. Beyond the circular hole was an umbilical that seemed to lead into another ship. Well, it _had_ to lead to another ship; there was only the vacuum of space beyond that bulkhead.

My breath caught in my throat as I saw four figures float through the umbilical and into the freighter hold. There were _not_ Innies. They weren't even human.

They looked like reptiles…bird-like lizards without tails, almost. They had long, elongated faces that had the appearance of beaks. They also had red eyes and tough orange hides. They were smaller than average-sized men, though they also walked hunched over.

Three of the aliens tumbled through the umbilical and hurried into the hold, fanning out to secure the area. They were all armed with long cutlasses that looked like they were made out of crystal. The fourth alien, however, seemed more composed than the others. It remained in the hole of the umbilical and seemed to be giving orders to the other three. It was definitely the leader, and it was armed with a C-shaped silver object that had a sickly green glow where the two curved ends nearly met. It looked like some sort of energy pistol, if such a thing existed.

We watched as Johnson raised his battle rifle and squeezed off several shots in the direction of the fourth alien, the one that appeared to be the leader. The shots went wide because the rifle's kickback in the zero-gee environment sent Johnson spinning away. One shot did, however, slice across the lizard-like alien leader's neck. Though we couldn't hear it do so, we saw the leader scream with pain. It turned and fled back into the umbilical.

The other three aliens turned and leaped across the hold, coming right for Johnson. They moved through the weightless space in a triangular formation, the largest alien at the apex. Johnson readjusted his aim towards the lead alien, but Byrne shot it first. The hit alien was sent spinning off to the right by the force of the bullet.

One of the trailing aliens slammed into Johnson before he could reacquire a target, slashing at the Staff Sergeant with its crystal cutlass. We watched as Johnson blocked the slash with the barrel of his battle rifle. I noticed that the cutlass was actually glowing with an inner pink fire—the damn thing was energized.

Johnson grappled with the alien for at least another minute until the Staff Sergeant managed to jam his M6 pistol under the creature's chin and pull the trigger three or four times. The alien's head blew apart, painting the inside of its helmet with violet-hued gore.

I realized that I had been holding my breath. I exhaled slowly and forced myself to keep on breathing semi-normally.

The third alien, meanwhile, had turned away from Johnson and pushed towards Byrne. Byrne opened fire, but—like Johnson—he was thrown off-balance by the recoil of his first shot. The third alien slammed right into the Irishman's gut, sending his battle rifle spinning away. As Johnson was pushing the now-headless alien away, Byrne continued to grapple with his assailant.

The alien fighting with Byrne finally slipped through the Irishman's guard and plunged its energy cutlass into his thigh. I winced as I watched this happen, unconsciously glancing over at Sergeant Byrne. The Irishman's expression hadn't changed.

The alien that had stabbed Byrne flailed its arms and made as if it were trying to get away. As it did so, I noticed that the cutlass was beginning to flash brighter than normal. Something wasn't right.

Byrne and Johnson seemed to converse for a brief second, and then Byrne yanked the energy knife from his leg. The Irishman plunged the weapon into the alien's midsection and kicked it away.

The knife, embedded in the aliens gut, glowed brighter and brighter until it became a blinding white light and exploded. Pieces of the alien flew in all directions.

Johnson's helmet cam moved to the right and took in the sight of the first alien, the one which Byrne had shot. Though it had been hit in its weapon arm, it had still managed to keep hold of its cutlass. It was tensed and turned to the side, holding the cutlass out towards Johnson. It was about to make a throw.

We watched Johnson raise his pistol, center the V-shaped ironsights onto the alien's chest, and empty the entire clip into the creature's torso. The heavy-caliber slugs pulped the alien, removing it as a factor in the melee.

Just as Johnson turned to make his way towards the umbilical, the video feed ended, cutting to a frame of the alien ship blowing up in a fiery haze, and then falling apart into static. Doc Healy turned off the projector and flipped the lights on.

All of us were sitting even more still than before. Mouths hung open, eyes widened and did not blink, arms hung limp and slack at sides. Voiceboxes ceased to function. We were…we were…well, there really isn't any accurate way to describe it. We were shaken, right through to the core.

"This is what your sergeants were doing in their absence," Captain Ponder said to us. "Yesterday, Sif—the AI who runs the Tiara space station—detected another ping entering this star system. These aliens, whoever they are, are back. And they've brought a much bigger ship. I know many of you are scared. If you are not, then you are a fool. But these aliens _can_ be killed; they are _not_ invincible. They will be landing in the Gardens tomorrow."

I raised an eyebrow at that. The Harvest Botanical Gardens was the second-largest park on the planet after the Utgard Mall. It was located on the Bifrost, over a hundred kilometers away from Utgard. I had never been there personally, but if there was ever a place on Harvest where First Contact with aliens would take place, it would definitely be the Gardens.

"Where do we come in, sir?" Carrol asked next.

"You men have been trained to be the best we can possible make you," Ponder said to us. "Tomorrow, we shall join Governor Thune at the Gardens. When the extraterrestrials meet with him, _we_ will be providing security. But your purpose has become far, _far_ more important than being a security detail," Ponder leaned forward and captured as many gazes as possible. "You are all that stands between the people of Harvest and these aliens, should they turn hostile. I hope you realize just how important you have become. Now, get a good night's rest. I'm going to need you all in peak condition tomorrow. _Dismissed!_"

I rose from my seat wordlessly. My squadmates did likewise and we all filed out of the mess hall without a sound. I exchanged a sidelong glance with Dempsey as we made our way across the greens. He gave a faint chuckle and summed up all of our feelings with two simple words.

"Well, _fuck_."

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_Okay, I really am sorry for taking so long to get this one up. I've been away in New Mexico for the past two weeks, backpacking through Philmont Scout Ranch, for those who know what that is. I was going to get this chapter up earlier, but a storm rolled through and cut my power right before I left. I was halfway through this chapter when the power went kablooey. I know, it seems like an unlikely string of coincidences, but it's the truth._

_Well, anyway, I'm back now, and the first thing I did was to finish this chapter up._

_Sorry again!_

_-TheAmateur_


	9. I Chapter 9: Diplomacy

Chapter Nine: Diplomacy

**February 11, 2525 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

We traveled in silence. We had driven up the Utgard Highway for several hours in a large bus. It was the same bus that we had taken into our training compound, though it now carried out men very different from the ones it had carried in. No one said anything. The only sounds were occasional sniffles, quiet clearings of the throat, exhalations, or lightly tapping feet.

We had arrived at the Harvest Botanical Gardens late last night. The sergeants and our Captain had formed us up into our squads and sent us to our posts, where we had been standing ever since.

There was nothing to say, really. We were all still coming to terms with what we were about to do. I mean, if someone told _you_ that aliens were about to land in your backyard, would you believe them? No, of course you wouldn't.

Well, how about if you were then shown a fucking _video recording_ of these aliens attacking your drill instructors? Would that freak you out? Of course it would. So there you are, freaked out by the fact that you have just been shown irrefutable evidence of the existence of aliens…aliens that seem to bear no good feelings towards you. And not only that, but they're about to land in your backyard.

But that's not all. After learning all of this in the span of five or so minutes, we _then_ learned that _we_ were going to be the ones providing security for the Governor at the site of the first contact, in the Harvest Botanical Gardens. We were still kind of…nervous. Putting it lightly.

Some of us weren't taking the news as well as the others. Ricketts had broken out into a nervous twitch, Dempsey had started to hyperventilate a few times, and Lowell could barely speak. Whenever he tried to, all that came out of his mouth was a wave of stutters and grunts. Carrol had calmly moved him back behind the rest of us and ordered him to sit down.

The Gardens was truly a grand place. It was divided into three landscaped tiers, each one stepping down towards the edge of the Bifrost. To clarify, the Bifrost was a huge escarpment that bisected the Edda supercontinent diagonally, running from the northeast to the southwest. It was the only major change of elevation on Harvest.

The lowest tier of the Gardens comprised of a wide lawn of close-cropped grass, capped by a band of magnolia trees. The Mimir River ran north of the lawn and ran down the height of the Bifrost in a large waterfall, though the sight was obscured by the magnolia trees. The lower tier of the Gardens rested right on the edge of the Bifrost. At this point, the Bifrost bulged in an unusual, but welcome and convenient promontory which offered breathtaking views of the Plains of Ida to the south. The landing was going to take place on the lowest tier, and that was where Staff Sergeant Johnson waited with the two Alpha Squads, under the commands of Dass and Stisen respectively.

1/C and 2/C, Amon and Habel's squads, were both stationed on the middle tier at the main gate of the Gardens, where the run-off from the Utgard Highway came into the Gardens' main parking lot. Their job was to keep people out of the Gardens, though this job really wasn't all that important at this time of night. Or maybe it was early morning—none of us could tell anymore.

The Bravo Squads—my squad, along with Andersen's 1/B—were stationed on the upper tier of the Gardens. We were arrayed in staggered lines in front of the greenhouse in the middle of the lawn, one squad on each side. In between us was a long rectangular table, piled with fruit and bread. Staff Sergeant Byrne was standing in front of the entrance of the greenhouse, silent and impassive as a statue.

We had been standing here for a long time, but none of us dared break formation. The only sound for a long time was the muffled roar of the Mimir River as it fell down the Bifrost in its magnificent waterfall. There was a fountain on the nearby staircase that went down to the middle tier, but its time-activated jets had not yet started. For now, it was just a pool of still, shallow water, reflecting the star-sprinkled black carpet of the night sky.

A bat flew through the air, chasing after mosquitoes and flies, no doubt. My eyes flicked after it for a moment, but I quickly snapped my gaze straight ahead once more. The waiting never seemed to end. More than once, I caught myself dozing off. My eyelids would start drooping, my breathing would slow, and all of a sudden my head was falling forward. I would snap back up straight and pray that Byrne hadn't noticed my lapse. Then, my eyelids would start to droop again and the cycle would continue.

"_Forsell's got contacts on thermal. Ten o'clock high_."

I nearly jumped when Jenkins's voice crackled over the COM. I noticed the others suddenly stand straighter as well, their spider senses set on edge. Something was about to happen.

Jenkins conversed with Staff Sergeant Johnson for a minute or so, confirming the presence of what appeared to be two alien dropships approaching from the west. Johnson then informed the Captain of this new turn of events. At Captain Ponder's behest, the two Charlie Squads reported the outer perimeter of the Gardens clear, and the sharpshooters of both platoons kept a close eye on the approaching alien ships.

"My God, there they are…" Ricketts murmured, pointing up to the sky.

Two points of light descending from the sky quickly grew into actual shapes as they neared us. They were definitely dropships of some kind. They had a bifurcated design—two forward-extending bars connected at the back by what appeared to be the main cabin. They looked like capital 'U's, or like tuning forks.

Their hulls were a bright purple alloy, and the space in between the two forward-extending prongs was glowing with a purplish-blue light. Each ship had a ball-mounted turret fixed under the rear cabin—obviously their main offensive weapons. I really didn't want to know what they fired.

The pair of U-shaped ships banked and circled the Gardens twice, probably observing the area before committing to a final landing. Apparently satisfied, one of the ships descended down towards the lawn of the lower tier while the other remained in its mini-orbit around the Gardens.

Several of us began to murmur to one another, but a fierce glare from Staff Sergeant Byrne quickly quelled our conversations.

There was a soft commotion down on the lower tier as Johnson and the Alpha Squads no doubt met with the aliens for the first time. My heartbeat began to accelerate, but I took a few deep breaths and forced myself to calm down. This was the absolute worst possible time to lose one's nerve.

The doors to the greenhouse opened up and four people walked out. Captain Ponder came out first, wearing his blue dress uniform. He walked down the staircase and stepped off to the right, nodding for Byrne to accompany him. Next out was a large, burly man with a bushy red beard, a jovial face, and a rotund belly. He was Nils Thune, the Planetary Governor of Harvest. He was dressed in a flamboyant yellow-on-white seersucker, giving him more the appearance of the jolly farmer he used to be rather than the powerful politician that he currently was.

Behind Governor Thune came Rol Pedersen, Harvest's aging Attorney General, clad in a customary gray linen suit. Coming out last, clad in full white naval dress uniform, was Lieutenant Commander Jilan al-Cygni, the ONI handler of our little outfit. Captain Ponder had explained who she was on our way up here—it had been al-Cygni who had recruited Johnson and Byrne to train us.

With our little human delegation assembled and waiting, we all turned our gaze to the staircase leading down to the middle tier. After a few more minutes, Staff Sergeant Johnson appeared up the stairs, heading towards the table, followed by three…_things_…

One thing was clear right off the bat; these aliens were _not_ the same aliens from Johnson and Byrne's skirmish in the DCS freighter. Those aliens had been smaller, knobby, reptile-like creatures of no great size or strength.

_These_ aliens were massive. They were huge, hulking monstrosities covered in thick fur, clad in heavy armor. If a gorilla ever made sweet love to a grizzly bear from Hell, the offspring would look something like these aliens. They stood well over ten feet tall. An average-sized man probably could have fit lengthwise across their shoulders.

Breath could be seen snorting from their helmets—they did not seem to like the crisp night air. The furs of the three aliens were different colors as well, presumably differing with age. The lead alien, which was clad in ornate golden armor and a large V-shaped crest for a helmet, had silvery-gray fur. The other two aliens wore blue armor. One of them—the elder, most likely—had tan fur, whilst the other had dark brown fur.

Sinewy, chorded muscles bulged from under their armor, and animalistic grunts rose from the aliens' throats as they conversed in their deep, guttural language. They looked like timebombs with extremely short fuses.

The two blue-armored escorts had huge, pistol-like weapons hanging from their belts. I had no idea what they fired, but they looked nasty. The weapons also had wicked-looking, gleaming, curved silver blades fixed to the ends, almost like bayonets. I really would not want one of those suckers coming at me. The golden-armored alien was unarmed, but one of the escorts was carrying what looked like a massive hammer. It had a long alloy handle with a stone head that looked like it weighed as much as a man. That hammer was most likely the golden-armored alien's weapon.

I broke out into a cold sweat at the sight of these monsters. This was _not_ what we had been expecting, not by a longshot.

"What the fuck _are_ these things?" Dempsey whispered. "How are we supposed to fight things like that if-"

"Shut the fuck up, Dempsey," Billings growled, beating Carrol to the punch.

Staff Sergeant Johnson, having completed his task of leading the alien delegates to the table, broke formation and circled around to join Ponder and Byrne. Governor Thune thanked him and turned towards the golden-armored alien, his face splitting into a wide, toothy grin.

"Welcome to Harvest!" the Governor beamed. "I am its Governor," he tapped his chest, "_Thune_."

The golden-armored alien gave a throaty huff. I could see its breath in the cool night air—a short, sharp puff of moisture which quickly dissipated. I don't know if that grunt was supposed to mean anything, if it was supposed to signify the creature's name, position, rank, occupation, shoe-size, or favorite corn muffin recipe. Instead, I had feeling that it simply wanted Thune to get on with it. The Governor could be long-winded sometimes, and these aliens didn't seem big on patience.

One of the blue-armored escorts to the golden-armored chieftain—the shorter of the two—began to emit a strong musk. It didn't smell bad, it just smelled…strong. Pungent.

Beyond that huff, the lead alien gave no other reply. There was an awkward silence as Thune waited for the alien to give him something, anything. He opened his mouth and seemed to be about to launch into an extended introduction, but Lieutenant Commander al-Cygni gave a quiet cough. Thune flicked his gaze over to the ONI officer and she gave a slight shake of her head.

Governor Thune pursed his lips and gave an annoyed sigh, but he quickly remembered his audience and wiped the expression from his face. He made eye contact with Rol Pedersen and gave him a short nod.

The gray-haired Attorney General held out a COM pad to the aliens. The orchestral tones of Harvest's anthem began to play on a looped feed while images played on the screen of the pad. They depicted the JOTUNs hard at work in Harvest's fields, families enjoying their meals, workers crowding the streets of Utgard, as well as many other images depicting life on this planet.

For the better part of five minutes, no one moved. The aliens watched the display with obvious growing impatience. I could tell that they were here for something, and that they intended to take it whether we liked it or not. Right now, we were probably delaying them, something I had a nagging feeling that they wouldn't tolerate for very much longer.

After five minutes, the aliens started shifting inside their armor, deep grunts of impatience resonating from their throats. I wiped my palms on my pants—the sweat was making them slippery. When the aliens started to grunt and huff again, I subconsciously tightened my grip on my M6J carbine. I didn't dare raise it, but I was more than ready to. Something was off with these aliens. They scared the living shit out of me, and I did not think they were here for anything friendly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lieutenant Commander al-Cygni glance at a camera and give a very subtle signal. It was probably to Mack, the agricultural operations AI, who would have been watching the proceedings through the cameras. Sure enough, the feed on the COM pad ended and the music of Harvest's anthem fell silent.

Pedersen tucked the now-dormant COM pad under his elbow and stepped back.

The golden-armored alien grunted to the shorter of its escorts—the one with the dark brown fur. The shorter alien pulled a perfectly square-shaped object from its belt. I could see that it was a piece of titanium-A armor, probably from the hull of a freighter. There was something sketched on the one side, but I could not see what it was from here.

The chieftain wearing the gold armor took the sheet of titanium-A and presented it directly to Thune, stepping past Pedersen.

Governor Thune peered at the picture for a moment and smiled even wider. He beamed again at his Attorney General. "Look at this, Rol. See this picture? Just like we did to the freighter!"

Pedersen was not nearly as enthusiastic as his superior. "I think it's a piece _of_ the freighter."

Thune waved that statement away, gesturing to the drawing on the sheet. "But see what they've etched?" he asked.

Pedersen craned his neck towards the sheet, squinting to see the drawing. "They want to trade," the Attorney General guessed.

"Exactly!"

"Governor, if I may," Lieutenant Commander al-Cygni stepped in, nodding towards the sheet of metal. Governor Thune handed it to her, tapping his foot impatiently while the ONI officer studied it.

While al-Cygni continued to pore over the image, Thune crossed over to the table. He reached into the fruit basket and pulled out a large, ripened cantaloupe. I did not know why he was doing this, but I'm sure there was a reason.

Smiling even wider than before, which was a feat in of itself, Governor Thune walked up to the golden-armored chieftain and presented the fruit to it with a bow. "Please, take it," he said. "We can give you plenty more."

The alien took the fruit and brought it close to its face, giving it a curious sniff. It didn't know what to make of it.

As Thune began to speak of the pros and values of interspecies commerce, Lieutenant Commander al-Cygni cleared her throat again, putting the sheet of titanium-A down onto the table. She looked ill at ease, as if she had just discovered a very disturbing secret. "Governor," she said in a calm, but warning tone, "they don't want food."

"Don't be so sure, Commander," Thune chuckled jovially. "I think this one's about to take a bite!"

"No," al-Cygni shook her head, keeping her tone even. She picked the square of metal back up and gestured at the etching again. "Look."

I craned my neck, but was still too far away to see what was on the square. It was maddening; something on that square was making an ONI officer sweat, and I had no way of seeing what it was. The only thing I could do was look as impassive as possible and try to keep my index finger from slipping into the trigger guard.

The Governor and al-Cygni conversed in hushed tones for at least a full minute. al-Cygni was pointing out something about the drawing, but I couldn't hear the nature of what it was. Whatever it was, though, it was enough to make Governor Thune's eternal smile falter.

Right as Thune hesitated, the golden-armored alien let out a bark and held the melon out to Pedersen.

"No, no," the Attorney General held up one of his hands and stepped back. "Keep it."

The alien chieftain cocked its head and barked again. Now, all of us shifted uncomfortably as the musky odor from the shorter escort became noticeably more pungent. Before it had just smelled strong, not it smelled like a mix of vinegar and tar. It smelled _bad_.

My left eye began to twitch nervously and my breathing started to go up again. No matter what I tried to do, however, I could not calm myself down. My grip on my M6J tightened to a dead man's grasp. My knuckles quickly turned white. As the aliens grew more agitated, my teeth clenched. I couldn't take this much longer.

Suddenly, a gunshot cracked through the air. We all recognized it as an MA5 assault rifle firing in semi-auto mode. We didn't know if it was a misfire from someone more on edge than me, or if was intentional, but it did not matter. A throaty alien howl could be heard in the night, coming from the lower tier.

The tensions in the upper tier had been growing and growing ever since the aliens had arrived. That gunshot was the spark that set the powder keg alight. After that gunshot, things happened very quickly.

Before any of us could act, the taller of the blue-armored escorts—the alien with the tan fur—ripped its bladed pistol from its belt and swung it up. It pulled the trigger and the bladed pistol boomed. There was a bright flash of sparks right before a spike shot out of the barrel. It was burning white like a magnesium flare and it traveled nearly as fast as a live ammo round.

The burning spike shot out of the bladed pistol and sizzled right into Attorney General Pedersen's chest. The Attorney General fell to his knees, his mouth snapping open and closed as if he were trying to speak.

The Staff Sergeants were the next to open fire. They each shot at one of the escorts—Byrne at the taller, Johnson at the shorter. When the bullets hit the aliens, however, they did not make contact. Instead, the aliens' armor shimmered and appeared to deflect the rounds. They were not even scratched. They had some sort of invisible energy field that followed the contours of their armor that kept them invulnerable to small-arms fire. While normally this would be interesting to study, now it was about to be the bane of our existence.

Johnson yelled for Thune to get down as the shorter escort tossed the golden-armored giant its gigantic hammer. The golden-armored chieftain caught the hammer and swung it towards Thune. The Governor would have lost his head right then and there had Ponder not pushed him out of the way.

The silver-haired giant's hammerblow caught Ponder in the left side. It crushed his prosthetic arm and sent him flying through the air. He landed behind Byrne and kept on sliding for at least twenty meters.

By now, most of us had recovered our wits. As the shorter alien pulled out its pistol and aimed it towards Johnson, there was a triple crack that resounded through the air from Jenkins's BR55. The three rounds pinged off of the shorter escort's helmet. Even through it was shielded, the force of the bullets snapped its head back painfully.

"_Pepper the bastard!_" Carrol bellowed. At his word, all twenty-four recruits in both Bravo Squads—including me, obviously—opened fire. I worked the trigger of my M6J, firing off round after round at the shorter escort's head.

This was different than the rifle range at the training compound. The target was leaping and whipping around, and it was difficult to get a solid shot landed on it. Still, most of us were armed with MA5 assault rifles, and they were firing on full automatic. It was impossible to dodge every piece of lead that was flying through the air.

At first, the shorter alien's energy shields deflected our withering barrage of lead, but they suddenly vanished with a pop, as if they couldn't take anymore punishment. The alien's blue armor began to vent cyan smoke and spark as our bullets slammed into its now-unshielded plates. The alien roared with pain as it felt the bullets hit it for the first time.

The golden-armored leader leaped in front of its beleaguered subordinate, presenting us with its back. Its armor must have had stronger shields, because even all of our concentrated fire could not bring them down.

While the leader pulled the shorter alien away, the taller escort let out a thunderous roar and opened fire again, raking our two squads from north to south. I dropped to my stomach as a burning spike seared through the air where my chest had been a second before. Others had not been so lucky.

Lowell, who had been standing next to me, dropped without a sound, one of the alien pistol's spikes speared right into the center of his forehead. Davis took one to the throat and stopped moving after a few seconds of thrashing on the ground.

Billings fell to the ground as well, screaming and swearing every obscenity he knew as one of the spikes burned in his thigh.

Several others from 1/B also fell. Everyone was screaming. I couldn't tell who was screaming in pain apart from those screaming from the adrenaline jolting through their systems. Everyone was shouting for one reason or another, and it just fueled the chaos.

The aliens quickly tumbled down the staircase that led down to the middle tier and Byrne shouted for us to cease fire. I took my finger off the trigger and stopped firing my carbine, pushing myself back up to my feet.

An energized pulsing sound came from the lower tier, accompanied by bright flashes of purple and blue light. That was probably the turret from the dropship which had landed—it seemed to fire some sort of energy pulse. Not pure energy beams like the movies, though; it was almost like plasma. Maybe it _was_ plasma. I didn't care at this point.

Johnson and Byrne started to run off towards the staircase, but, after a quick word with one another, Byrne turned back and returned to us while his partner continued on. "Bravo, move up!" the Irishman bellowed. "Healy! Get your ass out here!"

"Bravo, let's move!" Carrol barked. As we all rose to our feet, I could see Healy come around the back of the greenhouse, medkits in hand. He hurried towards the motionless form of Pedersen and our wounded comrades who were lying on the greens.

The rest of us who hadn't been hit by the salvo of spikes, however, kept right on going. Most of us didn't bother to use the staircase; we just sprinted down the steep hill towards the middle tier of the Gardens.

We could see muzzle flashes coming from near the main gate as the Charlie Squads engaged a new enemy. Two dozen or so new aliens were attacking our compatriots. These aliens were neither the hulking brutes from the delegation, nor the reptilian ones from the Staff Sergeants' freighter skirmish. These aliens were short, stubby, gray-skinned creatures, shorter than average-sized men. They wore tanks of some sort on their backs, and the lower halves of their faces were obscured by breathing apparatuses that extended back into the tank. When they spoke and jabbered to one another, their voices were high-pitched and squeaky, as if they had been inhaling helium.

These aliens wielded tiny C-shaped pistols that glowed green at the ends. When fired, they spat globules of green energy towards their targets. This green energy burned through whatever it hit; trees, plants, even the metal and mortar of the main gates. Several Charlie Squad recruits lay motionless on the ground, their bodies riddled with burn holes caused by the plasma pistols.

"Take these wankers out, then proceed to the lower tier!" Byrne shouted, bringing his BR55 to bear. "We need to draw that ship turret's fire!"

That I could do. I shouldered my M6J and opened fire. My face split into a savage grin as I watched my target's head explode—these creatures did not possess energy shields.

All of the others opened fire at the same time, sending a withering wind of lead into the midst of these short aliens. They squealed and cried out as they were riddled with bullets, flying all over the place, trying to find cover. More than once, a bullet would strike one of the small creatures' tanks, which would then ignite in a brilliant blue fireball, consuming everything unfortunate enough to be too close. Whatever those things were breathing, it was extremely flammable.

After a few seconds, the surviving aliens broke off and started running like mad towards the lower tier, where the first dropship still waited, firing its turret towards the Alpha Squads.

"Keep it moving, Bravo!" Carrol spurred us on. We charged right through the middle tier, hurtling over the bodies of the slain aliens and whipping through the trees until we came to the hill that ran down to the lower tier. As we passed through, the recruits of the Charlie Squads fell in behind us and joined in our charge.

Byrne was the first to skid down the hill, followed by the fastest of the two Bravo Squads. I hung back behind most of the others in my squad; an M6J was not the ideal front-line weapon. An MA5 was better suited to that task. I provided supporting fire instead. Call me a coward if you want; I really don't give a shit.

As we crashed down towards the lower tier, I saw the second dropship, which had been circling overhead the whole time, dip down and come to a landing near the Mimir River, at the very edge of the lower tier, just short of the waterfall that flowed down the Bifrost.

The small, gray-skinned aliens that had survived our charge through the middle tier fled through the magnolia trees and into that ship. A fourth brutish alien—akin to the three from the delegation—guarded their retreat into the second dropship with a spike-firing pistol of its own. This alien was clad in red armor and sported pitch-black fur.

We ignored this, however, and kept right on going until we hit the lawn of the lower tier. We opened fire at the dropship that was firing its turret towards Stisen and Dass's squads, prompting it to ascend into the air several meters and reacquire _us_ as its targets, freeing up the Alpha Squads.

While the Alpha Squads followed Johnson and went after the second dropship, we kept up our fire on the first. The three aliens from the delegation had already climbed aboard however, so the dropship had no reason to remain. Ignoring our weaponsfire, the U-shaped ship turned back towards the west and rose up into the night sky.

The second dropship did likewise; all of the smaller aliens having boarded as well. It rose above the trees and climbed higher into the sky. It paused to fire several more globs of plasma at us before turning to join its departing compatriot. There was a bright flash of purple light as they accelerated faster than Mach 1 and vanished into the night.

The Gardens fell silent for a moment before the Staff Sergeants started barking out orders and reorganizing us. I accompanied my squad as we returned to the upper tier and started cleaning up. Attorney General Pedersen was dead, but Governor Thune had come through unharmed.

Captain Ponder had cracked nearly all of his ribs, sparking a firestorm of internal bleeding in his torso. If he didn't get medical treatment, and soon, he would die.

Collectively, we lost nine recruits during the firefight, and two of those nine were from my squad. Billings had taken a hit to the leg, but it wasn't anything biofoam wouldn't fix. Healy assured us that he would be running marathons again in a few days.

We later learned that the gunshot we had heard that had sparked the firefight had been from Osmo, the heavyset, nervous 1/A recruit. One of the gray-skinned, smaller aliens had jumped him and torn his belly open. His weapon discharged as he fell, striking the alien in the gut as well. His death, however, had warned the rest of us of the presence of a secret flanking force. My squad had wiped that force out on the middle tier.

As the dawn sun began to rise, I let out a sigh. We had been on clean-up all night. Utgard authorities were on their way here to take over—we were simply keeping the area secure from civilians. So far, none had shown up, though. It was still very early on in the day for that.

Although I had come through the encounter _physically_ unscathed…mentally, I was torn to pieces. These aliens had not been at all what we were expecting, and they had just torn through us like a tornado of knives. The only reason we managed to somewhat hold our own was because we vastly outnumbered them and they had been trying to leave anyway. Had they been trying to attack, or if there had been _more_ of them… I shuddered at the thought, but I knew that it would probably become reality real soon.

I yawned and stretched as the sun crested the horizon and sank into one of the chairs at the rectangular table. As I opened my eyes from the yawn, I saw the sun glinting off of something under the table. I reached down and picked it up—it was the square of titanium that the aliens had given to Governor Thune.

On it was what looked like an etching of a melon. I understood now why Thune had grabbed the cantaloupe from the fruit basket—the drawing depicted a man holding the melon to a drawing of the golden-armored alien. It symbolized trade. Or so Thune had thought.

Just as I was about to toss the square of metal back to the ground, I noticed something odd. The drawing of the melon was crisscrossed with odd lines that wouldn't be present on a cantaloupe. Perhaps the aliens had gotten the drawing wrong, but those lines looked oddly familiar, so I looked closer.

I traced the lines and matched them to the symbols. Suddenly, as if a light went off over my head, I recognized what the melon actually was, and I then realized why the higher-ups had been so nervous.

The etching of the melon wasn't really a melon. Those lines weren't the rind of the fruit; they were roads and Maglev train lines. The 'melon' was actually rendition of Harvest.

The aliens wanted us to give them the entire planet.


	10. I Chapter 10: Respect for the Fallen

Chapter Ten: Respect for the Fallen

**February 17, 2525 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

An older gentleman in an ornate kilt played a large set of bagpipes in the background, filling the Utgard Military Cemetery—a burial ground reserved for Harvestian members of the armed forces—with its mournful tones. I didn't recognize the tune that the piper was playing—it sounded Gaelic, but there was no way to be sure.

I stood rock-solid still at attention with the rest of my squadmates, watching as Byrne and Johnson solemnly picked up the UNSC flag that had been draped over Lowell's coffin. Johnson held the one end while Byrne folded the flag into perfect triangles. When he was finished, the Irishman tucked the flag under an elbow. He and Johnson swiveled to the left and marched in unison over to a woman in the gathering of civilians. She had to be Lowell's mother. She took the flag without a word.

Johnson and Byrne about-faced and marched down past Lowell's coffin to Hemmerling's coffin, which was next in line. They repeated the process—removing the flag from the casket, folding it up, and presenting it to the deceased's family. The sergeants did the same thing seven more times for the caskets of the other seven recruits who had been killed during the botched first contact in the Gardens.

We had lost nine people that night. Lowell, Davis, Hemmerling, Walters, Osmo, Mitchell, Creighton, Werner, and Alton. All gone. The shock of the loss had dulled a little over the past week, but it had by no means gone away.

I had grown up on the streets of Gladsheim. I had seen the ugly side of city life many times over. I've seen dead people before, people who had messed with the wrong gang, people whose only crime had been to walk down a street with a wallet full of cash…people who had just been plain unlucky.

But that was different. The death I had seen in my past…they had been strangers. Faces. People whom I'd never known or even spoken to. It was horrible to see people like that die, don't get me wrong, but it really didn't directly affect _me_.

Here, though…here were nine men whom I had known for several months. They had families, personalities, goals in life, likes, dislikes…and all that could just be erased in an instant by a few bursts from an alien weapon. I had been friendly with Lowell during most of my time under Byrne, as we had both been quasi-sharpshooters. Not the same caliber of sharpshooter as Critchley, but we were both pretty good in our own right. We had been speaking with each other minutes before the shooting in the Gardens had broken out. He had been standing right next to me when he had taken a spiker round to the head.

One instant he was there, and the next he was gone, his life extinguished. Winked out. Just like flipping a switch. He was now a hole in my life, a patch of pure nothingness. The sheer concept that I would never be able to speak with him again was just…it was difficult for me to wrap my mind around. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, my squadmates in the Harvest Militia were the only people who had been…well, _family_ would be putting it a little too strongly…but they were still my friends. They were the closest anyone's ever been to me since my father died when I was five, and I barely even remember my father. I wasn't breaking down in tears over the loss of nine comrades; it was more of a numb feeling, like some part of my mind just couldn't grasp how they were permanently gone.

The families of the deceased had mixed reactions to when Byrne and Johnson handed each of them their sons' flags. Some wept, some hardened with rage, others simply did not change expression. Maybe they were in a state of numb shock, too.

After Johnson and Byrne handed off the final flag, the two Staff Sergeants marched off to the side and stood at attention behind Captain Ponder. The Captain still didn't look well. He had been hit in the side by a giant hammer during the firefight in the Gardens. His ribcage had been cracked like it had been made of toothpicks. He had suffered from massive internal bleeding, and had been on the verge of hemorrhaging by the time Doc Healy had gotten him to a hospital. He was doing better now, but if he undertook any strenuous activity his wounds would reopen, and that would be _very_ bad news.

The priest—a former military chaplain—at the pulpit bowed his head and said a quick prayer, ending with, "…and thus we commit our valiant dead unto the Earth. Amen."

Most of the others present at the burial murmured _Amen_ as well, silently crossing themselves. I don't really have a religion, so I abstained. I still participated in the funeral, just not the prayers. Hey, if there really was a place above the clouds where good people went to party for the rest of eternity, then I hope with all my heart that Lowell and the others were there right now, and that's no joke.

After the chaplain finished his prayer, the nine caskets started to descend into the waiting graves.

Our six squad leaders, plus Critchley to make seven, stood in a line in front and to the side of Ponder and the Staff Sergeants. As the caskets began to descend, Captain Ponder called for attention. All of us stood ramrod straight at the same time. The Captain stepped back and nodded to Byrne.

Staff Sergeant Byrne marched forward, turned on his heel, and took up a position at the head of the squad leaders' line. "Present _arms!_" he barked.

The six squad leaders plus Critchey brought their rifles to their chests, swiveled to the side, and pointed their rifles up into the sky. As they did this, the rest of us planted our own rifles butt-first onto the ground, holding them steady with our left hands while we brought our right hands to our foreheads in a salute. Captain Ponder, Byrne, Johnson, and anyone among the civilians who were veterans all saluted as well. Everyone who was wearing a hat also removed them.

"_Fire!_" Byrne ordered. The seven-man rifle line obeyed, firing a single shot into the air. Byrne ordered them to fire a second time, and they repeated the action. The third time Byrne ordered them to fire, they fired the third and final shot and waited to retire.

"Stand at rest," Byrne ordered finally, stepping back to his place behind Captain Ponder and next to Johnson. The six squad leaders and Critchley lowered their rifles, having completed the twenty-one gun salute. We broke our salutes, letting our hands fall back to our sides.

"Honor Guard dismissed," Captain Ponder nodded to the firing line. "Thank you."

The seven men who had participated in the salute broke ranks and joined the rest of us, their part in the funeral completed.

The rest of the funeral lasted only another few minutes, and then it was over. The crowd dispersed, either leaving to go home, or moving up to stand by the graves. As for us, Captain Ponder and the Sergeants herded us back onto our bus, which promptly turned out of the cemetery grounds and onto one of the main roads that ran through Utgard. Before we knew it, we were on the Utgard Highway, heading back home.

The alien warship had been holding a standard orbit over us for the past week. After the disaster in the Gardens, it had pulled up and simply held position, neither attacking nor retreating. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that whatever hell Harvest was going to experience, it was just beginning.

That ship wasn't going to go away; the bastards on board it would be back. They wanted my planet, and they weren't going to negotiate for it a second time. When they came back, it would be with their weapons charged and ready.

I looked around the bus and found the same, hardened, determined looks in everyone else's eyes. They understood, too. The deaths of nine of our friends had sobered us, made us realize that those aliens were real, and they were deadly, and they would do whatever it took for them to get our planet. Well, they won't be facing a herd of meek, spineless sheep when they come. They'll be facing the Harvest Colonial Militia.

They'll be facing soldiers.

They'll be facing us. If they want this planet…they have to go through us.

Bring it on.


	11. I Chapter 11: A Home Burned

Chapter Eleven: A Home Burned

**February 22, 2525 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

Gladsheim. It seemed like a lifetime ago since I had last been here, since I had entered the recruiter's station to submit my application to join the colonial militia. It was a stretch to call it my home, but the remote city was still where I had spent the greater part of my childhood and teen years, living off of the very streets I now walked down. I knew it better than many ever would.

Things were different now. Then, I had been a young boy who lived off of stolen food and goods, moving from alley to alley, shelter to shelter, exploiting the system just to keep alive. I hadn't been alone on these streets, though; there had always been others. Die-hard gang members, teenage screw-ups, druggies, men and women with grudges, thrill-seekers—the list went on. In hindsight, I think it was a miracle I hadn't had an 'unfortunate accident' in all the time I had lived here. I had never had any sort of weapon, except for a small knife that I carried when I got older. I had never used it, though.

Now, I was back on those same streets once more. Only this time, I was not flitting from place to place, evading authorities and fleeing criminals. This time, I was marching down the streets with my squadmates. I felt empowered…probably because of the M6J carbine I held across my chest.

We had been stationed at the point where the Gladsheim Highway ran into the city itself, directing anyone who entered the city towards the Maglev train terminal in downtown Gladsheim. Mack had sent a pair of massive cargo containers down the Maglev lines into Gladsheim. The remaining populace of the city would board those containers and ride them into Utgard, where the next phase of the planet-wide evacuation would be implemented.

Habel's squad relieved us at the highway junction ten minutes ago. Carrol had piled us into warthogs and we drove back through the streets of Gladsheim until we got back downtown. We pulled into the park that held the Maglev train terminal, weaving our way through the crowds and parking off to the side.

Two thousand or so civilians crowded the park outside the terminal. The whole place was not built for security—there had never been any need before. The gate to the terminal was simply a break in a wrought-iron fence capped with streetlamps. Truth be told, the only thing keeping the refugees from storming the whole place was us. The rest of the militia was strung out along the fence, weapons raised and ready.

We would never use them on the crowd, but they gave the civilians some meager sense of security, and that kept them relatively calm. This was good; if they tried to storm the place, the organized evacuation of Gladsheim would never get finished before the alien warship reached the city.

After the disaster in the Gardens, the alien warship had remained in high orbit over Harvest. It had done nothing; it neither attacked nor retreated—it just sat there. Recovering, perhaps, from their brush with our weapons—though we had lost several men in the Gardens, the aliens had also sustained wounds. Perhaps they were waiting to heal.

During this limbo time, life on Harvest got turned upside-down. Details of the first contact in the Gardens were released to the public when Governor Thune issued a planet-wide order for all citizens to relocate to the capital of Utgard for evacuation. This news was met with fiery public outrage. People, in their panic, turned to anger and accusation. How long had the Governor known about the presence of aliens? What was being done to safeguard Harvest's citizens? Why had the populace been kept in the dark?

Harvest's parliament, never growing tired of politicking, had sided with the public, threatening Governor Thune with a vote of no-confidence unless more details of the alien encounters were released. It never ceased to amaze me how people could be so blind.

As the political front of Harvest turned into a battlefield, the warship suddenly left its high orbit yesterday and dropped down through the atmosphere towards Gladsheim—_here_. We had been bundled out of our training compound, tossed onto a Maglev train line, and sent into the city to provide security for the evacuation. That's what we were still doing now.

The warship, from what I've been hearing, has been wreaking havoc on the settlements outside of Gladsheim, gradually burning its way closer and closer to the city itself. We had to move the evacuation along before the warship got here. I didn't want to be here when that happened. I don't think anyone did.

We dismounted and headed over to the fence around the terminal. Dass, 1/A's squad leader, was sitting in the driver's seat of the warthog that was parked across the terminal gate. When the transport containers arrived, he would move out of the way.

"Ray!" Carrol called over to Dass, who looked up to see who had spoken. "You know where my boys are supposed to report?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dass pushed himself up straighter in the driver seat. "Habel's boys were helping 1/B with the ration line inside the complex. When the refugees start coming in, you'll be handing them ration packs for the trip. Here, let me move this…"

Dass started the warthog's engine and went into reverse, easing the vehicle back far enough to allow two men to fit side-by-side. The crowds of refugees stirred and murmured as the warthog moved, but the rest of the militia brought their weapons to bear. That calmed the crowds down.

We passed through the gap two-by-two. Dass moved the warthog back into place after we were through. As we turned to move away, Dass seemed to remember something; he hopped out of the warthog, calling back for Carrol. My squad leader exchanged a few hushed words with Dass before turning back to us. Dass climbed back into his warthog.

"Keep going, move it!" Carrol said to us, spurring us on into the Maglev station. "Garris, hold up a sec."

As the rest of my squadmates filed into the building, I fell out of line, walking over to the former constable.

"You need to report up to the roof of the station, son," he said to me. "Staff Sergeant Byrne's orders. Critchley wants to see you."

"But what about you guys?" I started to ask, but Carrol held up a hand and cut me off.

"All we'll be doing is handing out ration packs with Andersen's boys," the heavyset constable chuckled. "I think we'll be able to survive without you for a while."

"Yes, sir," I nodded, biting the inside of my cheeks to keep from stammering.

"Good man," Carrol clapped me on the shoulder. "Keep your head on straight." With that, my squad leader turned on his heel and followed his men into the station, leaving me alone outside.

I walked into the station after a moment's hesitation. Piles and crates of ration packs were stacked up on either side of the entrance. My squad and Andersen's squad—both Bravo Squads of the militia, coincidentally—were congregated by the entrance, prepared to hand out rations to passing refugees.

I brushed past them and walked down the short access hallway and into the main part of the station; the long, tubular corridor that was laid out parallel to the Maglev lines. When the train arrived, the people in the main corridor would pass through the doors and climb aboard.

The roof that covered the section of tracks at the station had been removed by the JOTUNs to accommodate the large cargo containers. I didn't go out that way, though, I walked through a utility door and found a roof-access ladder. I climbed the rungs and pushed open the hatch at the very top, climbing up onto the roof of the terminal.

Jenkins and Forsell were crouched on one end of the terminal roof. I exchanged a quick wave with them, but moved off to the other side. Critchley was sitting on the asphalt roof, leaning back against one of the air ducts. The middle-aged, balding SWAT veteran looked up from his BR55 and gave me a weary smile.

"Hello again, Garris. Been a while."

The last time I had really spoken to Critchley had been during our live-fire exercise in the woods…back when life had been simple. I had a great deal of respect for the man; his skill with a rifle was uncanny. I was a good marksman, but he was phenomenal.

"What did you need me for?" I asked, getting right to the point.

"Things got hairy in the Gardens last week," Critchley said. "Werner was one of the nine dead, as I'm sure you know…" The SWAT veteran faltered for a second as he mentioned Werner. Obviously, he wasn't completely over the loss yet, either. "I…uh…well, with Werner gone, I need a new spotter. The only person alive right now whose score at the rifle range came even close to Werner and me was you, Albert. Do you want the job?"

I knew what Critchley meant by saying that the only person 'alive' who was good enough for the job was me. Lowell had also been a good marksman—not as good as me, but close. Lowell was no longer alive, though, which left only me as the only viable candidate for the job.

I suppressed a smile. For the longest time, I had wanted to wield one of those BR55 battle rifles. I knew that we only had four of those rifles—two for Critchley and Jenkins, the other two for the Staff Sergeants—but becoming Critchley's spotter was one step closer to acquiring one.

"Hell yeah, sir," I nodded, taking a seat next to Critchley. "One thing, though. Don't ever call me Albert. I _hate_ being called that…" My father had always called me 'Alley' when I was a kid. I wasn't head over heels for that name, either, but it was preferable to 'Albert'. I liked it even better when people just called me 'Garris' or 'Junior'.

"Fair enough," Critchley nodded. "I'll have you know that on paper you are still part of 2/B. However, on the battlefield, you are not part of any squad. You answer only to me and Sergeant Byrne. Understood?"

"Completely."

"Good. Here…this was Werner's. Now it's yours," Critchley passed me Werner's spotting scope. Now it was _my_ spotting scope. Just as I was starting to examine it, a thunderous explosion tore my attention away. I had been hearing the same sound dozens of times when I was with my squad at the highway turn-off, but it sounded much closer now.

I twisted around and nearly fainted. The alien warship was in plain sight, several dozen kilometers distant, hanging at probably ten thousand or so feet in the air. Again, it was impossible to see this at the turn-off because downtown Gladsheim's skyline was in the way. Here, though, on the other side of the busy center of Gladsheim, the view was painfully clear.

The warship looked almost like a whale; its bulbous curves and contours were unlike any ship I had ever seen. It was certainly dissimilar to any form of Human architecture or design, almost as if it were built as much for appearance as it was for effectiveness. It was made of a strange purple alloy, as well, adding to the grandness of the vessel.

I watched as the ship glided forward through the air for several minutes before suddenly slowing to a crawl. Something then began to happen at the prow of the ship…I could see a bright light under the ship's front, facing down towards the ground. It grew brighter and brighter until there was another loud explosion.

A beam of white-hot plasma accompanied by a waterfall of ionized gases burst forth, slamming down into the ground somewhere. We were too far away to actually see the point of impact. After a few seconds, the hellstorm of plasma ceased and the alien warship began to inch forward again, leaving behind a plume of black smoke.

I brought my spotting scope up to my eye and observed the smoke. It was thick, dark, and oily smoke…it had to be someone's home that the aliens had just turned into glass. I refocused the scope to get a better look, but then I noticed something else, something I hadn't seen in the smog. My eyes widened as I saw dozens, maybe hundreds of similar pillars of smoke rising into the atmosphere. The warship had been busy…

I couldn't even fathom how many had probably lost their lives already. Probably thousands.

"It's been doing that for the past four hours," Critchley sighed, gesturing towards the warship. "Not everyone followed Governor Thune's evacuation order. Stubborn sons of bitches…figured they could just sit tight at their homes 'n ride the whole thing out. It's worked for 'em before, why wouldn't it work now?" the SWAT veteran gave a cynical snort. "Poor bastards are paying for it, now…"

"I haven't seen Byrne or Johnson since my squad got back from the highway," I said after another few minutes or silence. "You know where they've run off to?"

"Mack reported that he spotted a convoy of civilians coming towards Gladsheim on Dry Creek Road," Critchley replied. "They took a 'hog and went to intercept them. Haven't seen 'em since they left." He leaned in close and, in hushed tones, murmured, "Just so you know, Jenkins's family lived in one of those pillars of smoke out there. If they don't turn up on Dry Creek Road…well, you know what I mean."

"Right," I nodded. Probably for the first time ever in my life, I didn't envy the other recruits' having families. Since my father had died, I had never had any form of family on this planet… I would never have to go through the pain of losing loved ones. The others would. It was a horrible mindset, I know…but that didn't make it any less true.

After another few minutes, I did my best to ignore the constant _booms_ of the warship destroying more homes in the distance, opting instead to settle back and sweep the area with my spotting scope. The scope itself functioned like a telescope on steroids—I could zoom in far enough with this thing t read the words on a book being carried by one of the refugees. It had infrared and thermal settings, as well as wind gauges, angle and slant measurers, and range finders.

I knew that a spotter would use most, if not all of these perks to assist the sniper. A sniper would need to know the wind speed and direction in order to compensate his sights. He would also need to know the range of the target, which would affect all of the previous calculations.

"I'm sure you already know all of the technical applications to your new job," Critchley said to me, reaching into his pocket, digging around for something. He found it and pulled it out. "Smoke?" he offered me a cigarette from his obviously-contraband pack.

I declined.

"Suit yourself," the SWAT veteran shrugged. He put the cig into his mouth, lit it, and got it started with a few short puffs. "The other part of your job is to make sure nothing comes up on my ass while I'm busy sniping. That part of the job is more important than helping me with my range, wind direction, etcetera. If you die, I can always deduce those factors by myself. It wouldn't be easy, but I could do it. I could _not_ however, grow additional eyes to watch my own back while making said calculations. Only you can do that. Watching my back takes priority. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good."

Eventually, there was a low rumbling noise as a pair of cargo containers arrived on the tracks, sent by Mack from the north. They slid into place alongside the terminal and came to a rest. The terminal's overhang was just high enough to accommodate the entrance to the first cargo container, which towered above the terminal itself.

I could hear Dass moving the warthog out of the terminal's gate. Stisen and Captain Ponder then started to get the flow of refugees moving through the gate. It was slow going, but at least progress was being made.

After another long stretch of silence, something caught my eye. It was not the warship—like Critchley, I had tuned it out. It was something flitting around the Gladsheim water tower, the tallest structure in the city. My first thought was to dismiss it as a bird, but my curiosity got the better of me. I peered at the water tower through my scope.

No, as I'm sure you've already guessed, they were not birds. They were more aliens…though not any species of extraterrestrial we had encountered yet. They were not the lizard-like creatures Byrne and Johnson had fought on the freighter, nor were they the small, gray-skinned creatures from the Gardens.

These aliens looked more like insects. They had small, fly-like wings, orange eyes, and a chitinous exoskeleton that seemed to act as their armor. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose. Oh, _right_; they were also as big as fully-grown men. Forgot to mention that bit. There's a _lot_ wrong with that.

There were two of them perched on top of the water tower, simply observing us. Occasionally one of them would flit into the air, circle around, and return to the tower apex. They did not possess UNSC-issue friend-or-foe identifiers, so the scope's motion sensor painted them with a red outline.

"Contacts at eight o'clock," I reported. I went into more detail as Critchley swung his BR55 around in the direction I had just described. "Two on top of the water tower. Non-hostile…for now, at least."

"Mm-hm," Critchley murmured in agreement. "Looks like scouts, nothing more. I've seen these two ticks before…I call 'em drones; they remind me of those mindless soldier bees. Just buzzing around without much independent thought…"

"You gonna take 'em down?"

"Negative," the sharpshooter shook his head. "You start shooting here and the crowd will go nuts. Long as they're just watching…we'll leave 'em be."

I could tell that Critchley was only grudgingly following this logic; the SWAT veteran was itching to bring those aliens' lives to an abrupt, premature end. Our quiet counter-observation of the alien scouts was eventually interrupted after an hour or two by the departure of the first cargo container. The second container rumbled forward to take the first one's place, and the loading of refugees continued. At least half of the refugees had been dispersed, leaving around a thousand still outside the terminal.

As they started getting funneled through the terminal by the Alpha Squads, more of the insectoid creatures started popping up all throughout the city, taking up positions on the rooftops of various buildings.

Critchley took note of this as well. "Captain; we're picking up additional contacts all over the city, sir," the SWAT veteran reported over the COM. "I'm really not liking what I'm seeing up here."

"_Agreed,_" Jenkins concurred on the same channel from his position on the other side of the station.

"_Noted,_" Captain Ponder's voice responded. "_Until they attack us or until the last of the civilians are safely loaded into the container, you are still under orders not to engage_."

"Acknowledged," Critchley nodded, killing the channel and whispering, _"Damn it all_," under his breath.

This was the second time we had come into contact with these damn aliens, and both times so far we have not been able to open fire until it was convenient for _them_. I was sick of this shit.

Still, orders were orders. Hell, it would be difficult to hit those bugger-things without a BR55 at this range, anyway.

Captain Ponder had his reasons for stopping us from engaging the aliens, and they were sound ones, but he was also no fool. He knew that the insectoid aliens were most likely gathering for an assault, so he got onto the COM and recalled 2/C, Habel's squad, from the highway turn-off. There would be no more civilians coming into Gladsheim; Mack reported that the roads were completely empty.

The looming cargo container that was in the process of being loaded blocked our view to the east, so we could not see how close the alien warship was. By the sounds of the explosions, though, it was getting a little too close for comfort. I did _not_ want to be anywhere near this city when the warship arrived.

I could hear the Alpha recruits down below moving the civilians along, constantly reminding them to stay calm and keep at a steady pace. I knew that people moving too slow was never going to be an issue, but people pushing too hard, people moving too fast…all it took was one panicked nut-bag to spark a riot, and then people would be injured and trampled.

Luckily, this never happened. Most of the remaining refugees were herded into the container within the next hour. This was good, because there were only seventy or eighty left outside when the insectoid aliens attacked.

"_I'm getting activity from the end of the street_," Forsell reported over the COM. "_Buggers_…_around a dozen of them, heading this way_."

I swung my scope around and looked in the direction 1st Platoon's spotter had indicated. Sure enough, a group of ten or twelve buggers had emerged from an open manhole in the street. Their weapons looked like they were charged…and they were headed right for the terminal.

"Confirmed," I concurred over the COM. "They…uh…they look like they're ready for a fight, sir. Their weapons appear to be glowing…"

Captain Ponder did not immediately reply. He was probably seeing for himself if what we were saying was true. Well, it was true, and it took Ponder only a second to realize that. "_Acknowledged, oversight. You have a green light to engage. Ponder out_."

"Weapons free," Critchley droned into his throat mic. He raised his BR55, sighted his targets, and opened fire. The battle rifle resounded with a triple _crack_ as it fired, spitting three high-velocity rounds into the lead bugger.

I heard the bugger squeal as the lead ripped through its exoskeleton and into its inner body. It went limp and dropped out of the sky, hitting the asphalt thirty feet below. Another bugger fell as Jenkins opened fire as well. Between the two, Critchley and Jenkins dropped half the swarm before they came within weapons range. Considering they were flitting all over the place as they flew down the street, making themselves difficult targets, our sharpshooters were doing one helluva job.

Unfortunately, dropping one half of the swarm meant that there were still six unharmed aliens ready to lay into us. All six of them opened fire. Some wielded the small C-shaped pistols that the small gray-skinned aliens from the Gardens had carried. Those weapons fired small globules of green plasma energy that would melt anything they touched, short of battle armor or titanium-A.

Some buggers also wielded different weapons…they were about the same size as the small, C-shaped plasma pistols, but they were shaped more like what a science-fiction ray-gun would look like. They had glowing purple needle-like objects protruding from the top of the weapon. The gun fired these purple spikes out its front. Once all of the needles had been fired, a fresh batch would spring out of the top, ready to fire. I had no idea how something like that worked…but hey, it wasn't my job to understand the weapon's inner workings. My job was to kill the son of a bitch holding it.

Screams rose from below as the aliens rained green energy and glowing purple projectiles down onto the crowd. I couldn't tell if anyone had been wounded, but with all that shit flying though the air someone was bound to get hit.

An instant later, the air was filled with staccato weaponsfire as Stisen and Dass's squads opened fire on the aliens as well. The same principle applied to the aliens, too; with all that lead flying through the air, they were bound to get hit. Five of the six aliens were ripped to shreds instantly, but the sixth evaded the hail of gunfire. It turned tail and flew back in the direction of the water tower, where more of its brethren awaited. It didn't get far, though; someone with an M6J managed to land a slug in between the creature's wings. It screeched, falling from the sky like a marionette with its strings cut, landing in a heap on the asphalt. For a moment it tried to continue its journey by crawling, but whoever shot it out of the sky shot it again, this time taking off the top of its head, spattering the asphalt with violet blood.

The COM became filled with chatter as recruits reported to their squad leaders, who in turn conversed with each other and reported to Captain Ponder—the whole channel was a mess.

Somehow—to this day, I still have no idea how—the Alpha recruits managed to rush the rest of the refugees into the terminal without causing a stampede. This was very fortunate, because two or three more swarms of buggers were heading right for us by the time the last of the civilians had ducked inside.

Captain Ponder then contacted me, Critchley, and 1st Platoon's sharpshooters, telling us to get the hell off the roof. I was only too happy to oblige him. I clipped my scope to my belt, slung my M6J over my shoulder, and vaulted over the air duct. Critchley was hot on my heels.

Forsell was already kicking open the hatch that capped the roof-access ladder. Jenkins ducked into the space first and Forsell pushed me in next. I gripped both sides of the metal ladder and slid all the way down to the ground. Forsell did likewise, hitting the cement right after me. Critchley came in last, shutting the hatch just as a hail of the glowing purple mini-spikes clanked off of it.

We hurried down the utility hallway into the loading corridor. We got into the main atrium just as Stisen was sealing the entrance doors. "We got buggers coming out our asses out there!" the constable was exclaiming, waving us off. "Keep going, goddamnit!"

Stisen finished with the doors and sprinted down the entry hallway into the atrium, running alongside us. The Bravo Squads had already boarded, as had Dass's squad. The last of Stisen's squad were climbing in now.

The swarm of buggers flew right into the doors with resounding thuds. Cracks spiderwebbed all over the glass. Dozens of the insectoid aliens landed outside the entry doors and started hammering on the glass with their fists and weapons.

The doors were made out of normal glass, not tempered or bulletproof. There had never been any need for anything stronger. There had always been crime in Gladsheim, certainly, but nothing serious enough to warrant bulletproof glass for a Maglev terminal not many people had ever used. The glass shattered easily and the buggers swarmed through.

Stisen opened fire with his MA5, knocking a handful of the fuckers out of the air. I took down a couple with my carbine, but only a couple. Shooting behind myself whilst running was an art I had yet to master.

Critchley kicked one of the exit doors open, holding it for Forsell and Jenkins. 1st Platoon's sharpshooters slipped through. I went through next, and Stisen covered my back before exiting himself. Critchley turned away and stepped outside. The door began to close…but not fast enough to deflect the stray glowing purple needle fired from one of the buggers' needler weapons.

The mini-spike thucked into the back of Critchley's thigh and the SWAT veteran roared at the sudden pain, falling to one knee.

Stisen swore, shouldering his MA5 and crouching next to Critchley, throwing the SWAT veteran's arm over his shoulder. Critchley hobbled along, supported by 2/A's squad leader. I tried to support him from the other side, but he shrugged me off. "I'm fine, damn it," he growled.

I stepped into the entry airlock of the cargo container. The entrance was wide enough for a JOTUN heavy loader, so space wasn't an issue. Captain Ponder gave me a quick nod. "Good to see you in one piece, son."

"Thank you, sir," I replied in between gasps.

Stisen and Critchley boarded last. Ponder didn't even have to notify Mack that the loading was complete; the AI had been watching the whole time. The metal floor rumbled slightly as the cargo container began to move back up north along the Maglev line. It was slow going at first. Me and several others with M6Js picked off a few more buggers as we started off, but the cargo container quickly gained enough momentum and speed that the buggers could no longer keep up.

I lowered my carbine and trudged over to the nearest tower of ration crates, sitting down and slumping against it. Dempsey, Omar, and several other of my squadmates were present as well. For a while we just sat there, watching Harvest's burning countryside whiz by.

"You workin' with Critchley, now?" Omar asked finally. "I mean, with Werner dead and all…"

"Yeah…" I nodded. "Yeah, I'm his new spotter."

The boys and I chatted for another few minutes until Captain Ponder approached us, putting an end to our conversation. "Not to be rude, recruits, but you may want to move away from the entrance."

Before we could question why, the cargo container lurched suddenly, losing a good deal of speed. That was when I spotted it; another U-shaped alien dropship…possibly one of the very same ones from the night at the Gardens. There was a plume of dust beneath it—no, scratch that; it was a warthog moving at full speed…and the dropship was in hot pursuit, spewing plasma at the warthog from its underbelly turret. The warthog had manged to dodge every shot so far, but we could tell that it was running on borrowed time. Sooner or later, the dropship would score a hit, and that would be that.

Suddenly, the unthinkable happened. A formation of five or six JOTUN cropdusters swept in from the north, moving at subsonic speed. The alien dropship had strayed into their path. Two of them slammed into the dropship at speeds just shy of Mach 1, resulting in a brilliant fireball that hurt the eyes to look at. I knew that Mack had to be responsible for that.

As for the warthog, it kept right on going, barreling towards our container. It looked as if it were going to simply slam into the side of the cargo container, but the instant it was flush with the entrance it flew up an emergency loading ramp and sailed right through the opening. The military jeep bounced once off of the metallic floor, landed, and skidded another few meters, blowing right past us before screeching to a halt.

Staff Sergeant Byrne, who had been manning the warthog's LAAG turret, nearly fell off the rear. He kept his balance, but he still wobbled around a bit, like a man who had had one drink too many. The warthog had been moving really fast.

"Healy, we got wounded!" Johnson was shouting, climbing down from the driver seat, but the medic was already sprinting over. Healy had been tending to Critchley's leg, but his attention was required even more at the jeep.

A man was lying limp in the passenger's seat. He was a taller, older man with thinning gray hair. At least half of his body was covered in horrible burns… burns only something like that dropship's plasma turret could have inflicted.

"Where are the rest?" Jenkins was exclaiming, his voice cracking with panic.

"He's it," Byrne rasped, circling around the warthog to assist Johnson and Healy with getting the wounded civilian out of the passenger's seat.

It hit me that Jenkins's family hadn't been among the civilians in Gladsheim to board the train, so the only chance of them being alive had been if they had been traveling in the convoy that Mack had spotted on Dry Creek Road.

Johnson and Byrne had returned with only this one man. That was bad news for Jenkins. _Bad_ news.

Jenkins and Johnson started arguing. Jenkins wanted to go back and look for his family, but we all knew that wasn't possible. Jenkins started shouting at Johnson. Byrne rose to his feet and took a threatening step towards the angry, confused recruit, but Johnson waved him away.

Eventually Jenkins ran out of steam and retired to the rear of the container.

The rest of us, who had been watching the outburst with varying amounts of sympathy, gathered near the entrance of the container, which we had kept open. We liked the breeze.

The warship had reached Gladsheim. We had made it out in the nick of time. I watched as the underbelly of the ship's prow glowed purple and white as it charged up its energy weapon. My eyes reflected cyan-white when the ship opened fire, raining hell upon Gladsheim.

Within minutes, my home had been consumed in a hellstorm of fire and plasma. I couldn't even see the skyline anymore. My eyes stung as I watched the spectacle and my cheeks felt wet. I touched them and realized that I had been quietly crying the whole time. Maybe Gladsheim had been more of a home to me than I had realized... why else would I shed tears over its destruction?

I let out a weary sigh and went back to my spot at the foot of the tower of ration crates, sitting down and drawing my legs in close, resting my chin on top of my knees.

This has been a terrible day.


	12. I Chapter 12: The Coup

Chapter Twelve: The Coup

**February 22, 2525 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

I was roused from my dark, dreamless sleep by Carrol shaking my shoulder. "We're here," my squad leader said.

I opened my eyes to the sight of a Maglev terminal sliding alongside the cargo container's entrance. Well, it was really the _container_ that was doing the sliding, obviously, but it looked like the other way around to me.

Captain Ponder and the Staff Sergeants hustled us out of the container before an Utgard Constabulary official boarded the cargo container and began outlying the situation to the refugees. The refugees would be staying in the container for now. Phase Two of the evacuation plan required all of Harvest's citizens to be ensconced in these cargo containers, so removing these refugees from Gladsheim from the container would be pointless.

Captain Ponder had outlined the entire two-part evacuation plan to us during the five-hour trip across the Plains of Ida to Utgard. Phase One was to gather Harvest's entire surviving population into Utgard. The key to this whole plan was the Tiara, the space station in geosynchronous orbit over Utgard. It had seven orbital elevators that extended down into the Utgard Mall. Phase Two was to gather all of the civilians into cargo containers like the one we had ridden up from Gladsheim, and those cargo containers would be sent up the orbital elevators and shot past the Tiara. Propulsion pods would be waiting to receive the containers in outer space. Once linked up, the containers would jump to slipspace and get the hell out of the system.

At least, that was the plan. Give it time, though; there were still a million-and-one ways for it to crash and burn. We weren't getting drunk and celebrating just yet. For one thing, there was still a fucking alien warship prowling the skies that would prove to be a major hitch in this plan. What was stopping the alien ship from wasting the elevator strands while we were on them? I could only hope that that ONI woman had thought of this as well.

Myself and the rest of the Harvest Colonial Militia emerged into a virtually empty capital city. All of Harvest's remaining citizens—over two hundred thousand men, women, and children—had been gathered into the Utgard Mall. The Utgard Mall was not just a normal mall, however; it was also located next to the loading hubs for the seven Tiara elevator strands. It also served as the central hub for all Maglev train traffic within the metropolis area. As such, the 'mall' was huge…perfectly capable of fitting most of Harvest's remaining population for a short time.

Other than the blue-and-white patrol sedans from the Utgard Constabulary crawling through the streets, constantly reminding everyone to remain calm and stay within the Utgard Mall boundaries, the streets were completely empty of human beings.

I got a glimpse into the park, and the sight was almost depressing. It was even more packed than the Utgard Solstice celebration…but the crowd had changed. Gone were the bright pastel colors, the cheery dispositions, the alcohol-laced festivities. This crowd was just a massive, silent huddle. People who had just had their lives torn to shreds, people who were frightened, people who did not know what the future had in store for them. Odds were that we would all perish under the plasma of that alien warship…and the crowd knew that.

We militiamen were all loaded into a couple of flatbed trucks, which then drove north along the mall park, giving us a view of the parts that we could not see before. There was nothing new, though…just more of the same, sad sight.

It looked as if we were going through heavy traffic. The roads up here were absolutely _packed_ with sedans, trucks, convertibles, and all kinds of other vehicles. But when I actually _looked_ at the cars, I saw that they were all empty.

A breeze wandered through the buildings of the capital city. Trash and rubbish swirled through the alleyways and across streets. The columns of empty cars sat impassively. The whole sight was actually pretty unnerving…seeing _any_ city as empty as this was unnerving… It reminded me of those post-apocalyptic movies where cities would be completely devoid of human life, or infested with zombies or some other weird shit. Eventually nature would reclaim them…though I didn't think Utgard was going to be around long enough to start sprouting trees out of its asphalt. Plasma had a way of speeding up the decomposition process.

The parliament building came into view a few minutes later. The flatbeds pulled to a stop in front of the main gate and we all piled out. Habel and Amon's Charlie Squads were assigned to guard the main gate, and the rest of us were to join the Utgard police forces on the perimeter. If there was a riot against the parliament, we would be the first line of defense.

Goody; I've always _wanted_ to be a meatshield. How fun.

"Squad leaders, on me!" Staff Sergeant Byrne bellowed, calling all six squad leaders over to the steps leading up to the parliament building's front entrance. As they went, I joined Critchley at the top of the stairs, along with a trio of Utgard Constables in full riot gear.

"You boys expecting trouble?" I asked the policemen, gesturing at their gear.

"That's a huge crowd you're looking at out there," one of the cops said, nodding towards the masses in the Utgard Mall. "Can't take any chances."

"That crowd isn't going to be any trouble," Critchley shrugged. "All you have to do is look at them. Storming Parliament is the last thing they're about to do."

Critchley eventually sat down, leaning back against one of the marble columns. I didn't sit, but I still hung around the SWAT veteran. I asked him how his leg was holding up.

"Not bad," the SWAT veteran grunted. "I was actually pretty damn lucky."

"How do you figure that?"

"I got hit by one of those glowing purple spike-things. Healy just went in and pulled it out…then it exploded after the Doc threw it away," Critchley chuckled. "Wouldn't have been too good if it had done that while it was still inside my leg."

I grabbed my spotting scope and swept it through the crowds in the park. Still the same old same old. The police's fear of a riot was unfounded; these people simply didn't have it in them.

After a few minutes, the squad leaders were dismissed, clambering back down the steps to their squads. Meanwhile, Byrne and Johnson followed Lieutenant Commander al-Cygni inside of the Parliament building, presumably to meet with the Governor.

I settled for pacing around the top step, tapping my foot impatiently. I didn't know what was going on inside the parliament building. Governor Thune had demanded to see Lieutenant Commander al-Cygni, the ONI spook, for whatever reason. It couldn't be to brief him about the evacuation plan; as Governor, he would have known about it the moment al-Cygni drew it up.

Whatever they were talking about, I just wanted them to get a move on. I was wound tighter than a coiled spring; there was a warship out there that wanted all of us dead, and it didn't seem right to be just standing around doing nothing. We should be ascending the elevators right now, not sitting in the Utgard Mall like cattle waiting to get turned into cold cuts.

"Calm down, would you? You look like you're about to lose your mind," Critchley said to me, noticing my increased pacing.

"Calm down? When there's an alien warship on the way that's going to fry us up and serve us with chips, and we're doing abso-fucking-lutely nothing about it?" I nearly shouted back at him. I forced myself to stop pacing and walked over to the sharpshooter, sinking down next to him, burying my forehead in my hands. "I'm sorry…it's just that… God, today has really _sucked_ so far…"

Critchley chuckled again. "I hear ya," he agreed, tenderly rubbing the bandage on his thigh. "I know what you're thinking; why the hell aren't we climbing those elevators right now? Well the answer is simple: we need to take out that alien ship before we can implement Phase Two. That's what the higher-ups may be discussing right now…"

"And just how are we going to pull _that_ one off?" I rolled my eyes. "The only thing _I_ can think of would be using that big thing that goes _BOOM_ every solstice."

"The mass driver?" Critchley raised an eyebrow. "Interesting..."

Harvest had an old mass driver that had once been used for firing nuclear waste straight into Epsilon Indi. Mack still fired it every solstice like a huge firework, a tradition that had started ages ago. My line of thinking was that if you loaded that sucker up with a MAC round, for example, aimed it at the alien warship, and fired…maybe it would be enough to waste the bastard. It would have to be; Harvest had no other viable offensive weapons capable of taking down an entire ship.

I settled for field stripping my M6J and cleaning it out with a rag. I had used it extensively on two occasions already without cleaning it. I suppose it didn't really need to be cleaned yet, but I was bored out of my mind and there was nothing else to do, so what the hell?

It took me around ten minutes to completely clean the weapon. I was just finishing sliding the trigger mechanism into its groove when the gunshots cracked through the air.

I reflexively looked down at my carbine, half-afraid that my weapon had discharged, although I knew that that was not the case.

The constables manning the perimeter of the Parliament building all raised their weapons, aiming them towards the upper window where the gunshots had come from. I slapped a fresh mag into my carbine and racked the firing lever, flicking off the safety.

"What the hell is going on in there?" Critchley shouted to Carrol, the nearest squad leader.

"No idea!" Carrol hollered back. "The sergeants aren't answering their COMs!"

After a few minutes, Staff Sergeant Johnson emerged from the Parliament building. Governor Thune's body was slung over his shoulder. Lieutenant Commander al-Cygni came out right behind. Last to emerge were Doc Healy and Byrne, who were both supporting Captain Ponder. The Captain hadn't been shot, but it looked as if his wounds sustained from getting hit by the giant alien hammer had reopened.

Every Utgard constable in the area leveled their M7 submachine guns and MA5 assault rifles at the Staff Sergeant and Lieutenant Commander.

The three constables whom Critchley and I had been standing with all swore, unslinging their weapons as well. One of them kept his rifle trained on Johnson and the other two lunged at me all of a sudden. The possibility of the constables turning on us had been so far-fetched that I had never even considered it. Surprise was still evident on my face even as the one constable's rifle butt slammed into my cheek.

I was out cold before I hit the ground.

* * *

"_Garris? Garris? You okay?_"

I cracked open my eyes, squinting as my retinas adjusted to the dull late afternoon sunlight. I let out a low groan and propped myself up with my elbows. The first thing I did was reach for my rifle, but a hand grasped my wrist.

I looked up, coming face-to-face with the handsome features of Doc Healy. The medic shined a bright LED light right into my eyes and quickly felt my pulse before asking, "You feeling alright, kid?"

"_Fuck…you…_" I muttered, reaching over again and grabbing my carbine.

Healy's face split into a grin. "That's all I wanted to hear," the medic chuckled, rising to his feet. "_He's fine!_" he said, probably talking to Staff Sergeant Byrne.

"Come on, Alley, let's get you on your feet…" Critchley said from behind. He hooked his arms under mine and hauled me up. I staggered for a moment, nearly losing my balance, but I steadied myself against the marble column I had been sitting in front of.

I raised a hand to my face and touched my right cheek. I winced as my fingers brushed it...my face was probably half bruise. That son of a bitch had clocked me pretty damn hard.

I took in the scene as I regained my ability to walk unassisted. The Utgard constables were surrendering their weapons to Stisen and Dass's Alpha Squad recruits. Those who hadn't done so yet were standing with their hands up while militiamen held them dead in their sights.

"What the hell happened…?" I mumbled, slinging my M6J over my shoulder.

"The Governor tried to bitch out," Critchley informed me. "We had the evac plan all laid out for him…according to the sergeants, he lost his nerve and didn't want to go through with Phase Two. The spook then officially revoked his power and took over."

"And then she _shot_ him?" I nearly shouted, remembering Johnson bearing Governor Thune's motionless form.

"She used TTR; the Governor was only unconscious. Even so…" Critchley scratched the stubble on his chin. "Even so, al-Cygni taking over didn't exactly blow over well with the constables… No matter, though. We…_persuaded_ them to stand down while you were napping on the ground."

"Persuaded. Really." I wasn't convinced.

"Yep. Over sixty rifles aimed down your throat does the job surprisingly well."

"I would imagine…"

The constables were completely disarmed within ten minutes, and excorted into the Utgard Mall by Habel's squad. For the most part, they dispersed, probably going to find their families. They no longer had a purpose here…we had effectively stolen their jobs. Well, tough shit; it's not like any of _them_ got smashed in the face with a rifle...

"_Recruits__! On me!_" Staff Sergeant Byrne bellowed suddenly, waving for everyone to join him and Johnson at the base of the Parliament building's stairs.

"We are about to begin Phase Two," Johnson said to us once we were all assembled and present. "This will involve loading everyone into cargo containers, sending them up the elevators to the Tiara, and getting them out of this system. Two things stand in our way: there's the alien warship, but Captain Ponder is…personally…dealing with that…" the Staff Sergeant sounded a bit off as he said that, but he quickly shook his head and continued speaking. "The other hitch is…slightly more complicated. Aliens have boarded the Tiara."

_Uh_…

A harmony of whispered profanity rose from the assembled recruits, but no one lost their cool. Props to us.

"If we are to begin evacuating the civilians, the Tiara must be retaken," Byrne picked up the slack of the briefing. "1st Platoon will be tasked with this. You will go up on two separate grease buckets on elevator strands two and six, under the commands of Staff Sergeant Johnson and Lieutenant Commander al-Cygni. Once you reach the Tiara, you will wipe out any non-human son-of-a-fuck you encounter."

"Staff Sergeant, sir," Stisen stepped forward, "Permission to join the space op."

"Denied," Byrne replied. "I need you with me. 2nd Platoon," my Staff Sergeant continued, "you will be with me. Mack has reported that once we take down the alien ship with the mass driver-"

I allowed myself a small grin. _Called it_.

"-the aliens will be able to track down the source of the mass driver's power. Our job, 2nd Platoon, is to keep those alien fuckers away from it."

"And where is this place, if you don't mind me asking?" Stisen pressed.

"It's the same place where we had our last live-fire exercise," Byrne replied. "Boys…we're going back to the reactor complex," the Irishman said, grinning wolfishly, displaying teeth. "And this time we won't be using TTR."


	13. I Chapter 13: Exercise Again

Chapter Thirteen: Exercise…Again

**February 23, 2525 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

There were less of us here than there had been last time. Harvest's reactor complex hadn't changed, but the men defending it had. Before, we had been grumpy, green, untried, and untested recruits. Now, we were hardened, full-blown militiamen. Sure, we weren't the Marine Corps, but we came pretty damn close.

The scenery had drastically changed as well. Before, the complex had been surrounded by cornfields. The only differences in the monotony had been the eastern ridge and the gradual, sloping hill to the west. Turns out, that hill had been Harvest's mass driver—Mack had buried it with the JOTUNs to shield it from the aliens' sensors.

Now, the time for secrecy was over. The JOTUNs had uncovered the mass driver, digging it back up. Now, the land to the west of the reactor complex was a tilled brown patch of soil. In the center was the mass driver, which looked like a huge potato gun sticking out of the ground, its gimble aimed north, towards Utgard.

While Johnson and his boys climbed into grease buckets that were heading up the elevator strands to the Tiara, Byrne piled all of us into an empty cargo container, which we rode south down the number four Maglev line. We passed by the area that had once been Gladsheim as we started moving south, parallel to the Gladsheim Highway. I never got a look at my former home, though; all I saw was a thick pillar of smoke, large as a mountain, gushing up into the sky. There was nothing left. Nothing at all.

We disembarked later on and walked the rest of the way, leaving the cargo container on the Maglev line. It was a two-hour walk from the line to the reactor complex. We did it in one.

We had been sitting in the fields outside of the complex for the past hour when suddenly the mass driver exploded to life. It fired two times in quick succession, its payload directed up north towards Utgard, where the alien warship was now located. I hoped those two slugs blew a hole in that motherfucker, I really did.

I clamped my hands to my ears as the deafening reports of the mass driver firing roared into my eardrums. It was a wonder my ears didn't explode on the spot.

"_How 'bout a warning next time, asshole!_" one of the other recruits, probably Billings, was shouting to the sky. He knew Mack wouldn't be able to hear him, but it still felt good to yell.

A few minutes later, our COMs crackled and Staff Sergeant Byrne ordered us to pull back into the complex.

We obeyed his orders, puzzled. The whole point of us being out in the fields had been to give us as much cover as possible from the alien dropships. We didn't question Byrne's orders, though; we all knew he had a good reason.

"Change of plan, boys," Byrne said to us once all of us had assembled in front of the reactor complex gate, where the Staff Sergeant had parked a warthog. "The aliens aren't coming in dropships; Mack has warned me that they're coming in land vehicles. Get ready for a ground assault. Oh…" the Irishman stopped us from leaving, remembering one last thing. "Those two shots from the mass driver took that alien ship down. Captain Ponder sacrificed himself to lure the ship into Utgard, right into the path of those shots. Keep him in your thoughts; if we make it off this planet alive, it will be thanks to him. Carry on."

Captain Ponder was _dead?_ We all walked away numbly. None of us could believe it. The Captain had been one of those constants, one of those parts of life that was always there. We had never seen him angry, or even raise his voice. He seemed almost immortal. To lose him… Too many good men had died already.

"Garris! Get your ass up here!" Critchley shouted down to me. The sharpshooter was already climbing up onto the first story roof of the reactor tower. I followed suit, pulling myself up the rungs of the ladder, climbing up onto the first story roof. Critchley and I climbed all the way up to the second story roof, the very top of the tower.

I took out my spotting scope and began scanning the northern horizon. If anything was coming straight at us from the direction of Utgard, it would be coming from the north.

Alpha Squad took a forward position on the first story roof, overlooking the gate. Bravo Squad took up its position on the rear of the first-story roof, and Charlie Squad formed up in front of the entrance to the data center inside the tower. Byrne had parked a warthog in the complex gate and was manning the M41 LAAG turret, ready to intercept anything that came his way.

No one said anything. Everyone was ready.

I spotted something off to the north; a plume of dust. It was growing larger and closer, so I peered through my scope and got a closer look.

Actually, it was _three_ plumes of dust, and they were heading right for us.

"Possible contacts north," I spoke into my throat mic. "Switching to thermal…"

I hit one of the scope's controls and blinked as the view of the three dust plumes jumped from normal imaging to the grays, blacks, and whites of thermal imaging. Sure enough, at the head of those dust plumes were three distinctively white shapes, clearly vehicles.

"Staff Sergeant, I have a confirmed visual of three hostile contacts coming in from the north," I reported. "They're heading right for you, sir."

"_Acknowledged,_" Byrne responded. "_Critchley;_ k_eep the bastards in your sights_."

A minute later, the three aliens burst out of the corn, riding their strange vehicles. These were the big, armored, hellish-gorilla aliens from the Gardens—they were the ones driving these machines. They sat at the back of the vehicles. The backs of the vehicles were supported by some sort of anti-gravity array, and the front by two huge, sharp, spiky wheels. They also seemed to have rocket thrusters installed in the rear. They looked almost like mechanized plows…only mounted with weapons and repurposed for killing. It wouldn't be the same without the killing, would it?

The front wheels of the vehicles tore up the pavement of the access road as they made a beeline for the gate.

"_OPEN FIRE!_" Byrne bellowed, loud enough to be heard by everyone without the assistance of the COM.

I dropped my scope and aimed down the sights of my M6J, centering them on the driver of the lead vehicle. A storm of lead tore through the air as every single 2nd Platoon recruit in the complex opened fire on the lead vehicle. The vehicle's gray surface lit up as sparks and tracer rounds worked their magic upon it.

That lead vehicle would have been toast had the other two vehicles not intervened. Both of them fired their rear-mounted rocket thrusters, which doubled their velocity. They boosted past the lead vehicle, swerved off the access road, and smashed right through the chain link fence. This divided our fire, effectively saving the first vehicle.

Byrne had managed to get a few seconds of sustained fire on the first vehicle with the warthog's LAAG, but it wasn't enough. The first vehicle fired its thrusters as well and tore right through the military jeep, sending debris flying everywhere. Byrne had leaped off of the warthog at the very last second, just barely managing to avoid getting turned into kibble.

While the other two vehicles slowly advanced, trading fire with Stisen and Carrol's boys on the first story roof, the lead vehicle veered off and circled around the back of the tower before making another pass at Byrne, who had hurried into cover behind sandbags with Habel and several of his men. It fired the two guns mouted on its front wheels. They fired large spikes, similar to the ones fired by the large alien rifles, only much bigger. They thucked into the sandbags, but none hit any of the Charlie Squad recruits.

Despite the fire Charlie Squad was laying on it, the vehicle accelerated forward. I saw Byrne tackle the two recruits in its path, pushing them out of the way just as the vehicle tore right through the barrier of sandbags. The brutish alien driving it backed the vehicle up, revving for another go.

I laid down some fire on the driver, but its shields sparkled and deflected all of my shots. Its rear-mounted thrusters flared again and the vehicle leapt forward.

Byrne, Habel, and another recruit named Jepsen managed to duck inside the data center entrance in time, but the fourth man in the way, an older recruit named Vallen, was too slow. I watched as he fell beneath the slicing front wheels of the accelerating alien vehicle. He vanished, and then reappeared a moment later out of the rear of the vehicle in the form of a red mist with chunks of uniform and flesh, like he had just been fed into a chipper.

Weaponsfire burst out of the entrance as Byrne opened fire on the driver. Several rounds pinged off of the tan-haired creature's helmet, causing it to swerve off its path. Not giving up, the armored alien leaped off of its vehicle and charged through Charlie Squad's fire, sprinting right into the tower entrance after Byrne, Habel, and Jepsen. There was nothing any of us could do to stop it.

We wanted to go in and help our Staff Sergeant, but there were still two more aliens out here that needed killing.

Large, blazing projectiles slammed into the polycrete wall of the upper half of the tower as the two remaining vehicles kept up their fire. Critchley and I did our best to return more precise fire, but we really couldn't do much with all the fire whistling right over our heads.

Those vehicles were moving at a good speed; managing to even _hit_ the drivers was a feat in of itself, and their shields deflected any shot lucky enough to hit home.

Stisen and Carrol's squads were huddling under cover more than they were attacking, and the few remaining Charlie Squad recruits weren't able to even poke their heads over their sandbags.

Once or twice, a projectile came close to taking my head off. I had no idea how they continued to miss me, but I sure as fuck wasn't complaining. Of course, my luck was about to run out.

I peeked over the edge again and aimed my carbine down at one of the circling alien vehicles. I waited for the angle to be right before squeezing off five shots. Three of them, to my delight, struck the one of the aliens' helmets, snapping its head back from the force of the impacts, causing it to temporarily lose control of the vehicle. The chopper-thing swerved towards the polycrete wall of the tower, but the alien driver regained control at the very last second.

I could hear its angry roar over the vehicle's engine. It ignored the fire my squadmates were laying down on it for a moment, looking right up at me. It bared its teeth and threw something at me.

I saw a dark object which had a sparking orange tip flying through the air for a brief moment before suddenly it was sticking to the edge of the second story roof right in front of me. It was a long, black, cylindrical object with spikes jutting out of its length. It was these same spikes that allowed it to stick to the polycrete. The top of the object was sparking orange, similar to the fiery, burning light a flare gives off. In the moment I had to look at it, I realized that the glowing orange was actually a fuse.

"Grenade!" I screamed, rising to my knees. "Get back! _GET BA-_"

The damn thing detonated right in front of me just as I was throwing myself back. White-hot motes of pain lanced through my abdomen and chest as a fist of shrapnel from the grenade and splinters of polycrete punched me right in the gut. I was thrown all the way to the other side of the roof, smacking my head on the polycrete as I went down.

"_Garris!_" Critchley shouted, rolling over to where I lay. He patted me down and tore open the front of my fatigues, swearing at the sight. I looked down as well. My entire abdomen was covered in scrapes and lacerations. One of the spikes from the grenade had speared into my left side…probably where my appendix would have been had it hit the same spot on my other side.

I grasped the spike and started to pull it, but Critchley stopped me. "Don't do that," the SWAT veteran warned me. "That'll just cause more bleeding. Wait for someone who has medical training."

Doc Healy wasn't here, unfortunately. He had gone up with 1st Platoon to the Tiara, and rightly so; that mission had a much higher risk than this one. There would be more blood for the medic to clean up there. Those of us on the ground would just have to hang in there until we got back to Utgard.

I struggled back up to my knees and crawled over to my rifle. I cradled my M6J in my arms like a newborn infant as I walked on my knees back to the edge of the roof. Critchley didn't even try to stop me. We needed every gun we could muster to give these aliens a dose of death by lead.

We still had no luck with the other two aliens on their vehicles. Just as I was thinking the situation couldn't get any worse, Byrne emerged from the tower entrance below.

The Irishman was being held in the grip of the massive tan-haired brute that had chased him inside. I actually recognized that alien as one of the escorts to the alien that had worn gold armor in the Gardens. That was the alien that had killed Lowell and Davis from my squad. The Staff Sergeant was missing his helmet, assault vest, and weapons. Blood streaked through his black hair and face, and there were four bloody claw marks running down the Irishman's chest. He looked as if he had just gotten the beating of a lifetime. Habel and Jepsen were nowhere to be seen, which meant they were most likely dead.

Every single rifle swiveled and leveled themselves at the blue-armored alien brute holding Byrne.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" Stisen was shouting. "You'll hit the Staff Sergeant!"

Staff Sergeant Byrne seemed to protest, but he couldn't speak coherently—his jaw appeared to be dislocated. The alien holding him let out a guttural bark and savagely forced Byrne down to his knees. The alien drew its spiker rifle and sliced the two curved blades fixed to the weapon's barrel across Byrne's right shoulder. The Irishman roared in pain as the crescent-shaped blades grated across his collarbone, but he was unable to do anything more. Neither were we.

The alien then held the crescent-shaped blades on its weapon up against Byrne's throat. Though it could not speak English, its message was clear: _Drop your weapons, or he dies_. Or something along those lines. It was pretty hard to misinterpret from where we were standing.

Even as I looked back on the stand-off in later years and asked myself, '_Would you have laid down your gun, Alley?_'… I still don't know the answer. But the point is that none of us ever got the chance to find out.

Just as the alien looked as if he was about to get right down to brutal, bloody business, a strange noise caught everyone's attention. It was mechanical…the sound of an engine. No…_engines_. Plural to the extreme.

An army of JOTUNs suddenly crested the eastern ridge. My mouth went slack as I watched it approach us—I had never seen so many JOTUNs together in one place. There were at least ten of the massive series-five combines, as well as many other of the lesser series. Waves and waves of gondolas surrounded these behemoths, as well as thousands of the smaller machines. All were gathered in a gargantuan phalanx, rumbling towards the mass driver to the west.

The aliens on the other two vehicles had even stopped attacking, gazing in awe of the massive army of machinery.

The alien holding Byrne hostage let its weapon fall from the Irishman's neck as it caught sight of the oncoming JOTUNs. That was the last mistake it would ever make. The moment it lowered its weapon, every single one of us opened fire. The alien's shields sparkled to life, but they could not long stand up to the barrage of all our concentrated fire. The blue armor vented cyan smoke as the shields failed and our rounds started drilling right through the armor plates.

The alien fell back, gouting dark red blood. I think Critchley even managed to put a round through its eye. It twitched twice when it hit the ground, then lay still.

Everyone redirected their aim onto one of the aliens on the chopper vehicles. The force of the barrage of lead took out its shields and knocked it clean off of its seat. The vehicle thudded into the earth, no longer powered by a driver.

The third brute revved its engine and boosted away towards the complex gate, but it didn't get very far. Two of the JOTUN cropdusters from the advancing army of machines streaked out of the sky and slammed into the alien vehicle with the accuracy of a guided missile. The whole thing erupted into a brilliant ball of fire, and its alien driver was turned into mincemeat. When the smoke cleared, all that was left was a pile of scrap metal and a crater.

The brute that we had shot off of the other vehicle let out a agonized groan, drawing our attention to it. Its armor was dented and smashed, and the alien itself was badly wounded. It tried to crawl away…but we didn't let _it_ get very far either.

"_Waste the fucker!_" I heard none other than my temperamental squadmate Billings roar.

Many of Stisen and Carrol's recruits leaped off of the first story roof and sprinted across the wreckage of the complex to the wounded alien, which was too weak and wounded to defend itself. Fifteen of the younger recruits, led by Billings, surrounded the massive alien, brutally clubbing it with their rifle butts.

I wished I could join in the fun, but my abdomen was really starting to hurt. There was still a spike embedded in there, and running would not be the best thing to do for it.

The alien grunted and howled in pain as the vengeful recruits beat the living shit out of it. They still clubbed it with their rifles, some kicked, some stomped…

Billings even drew a combat knife—I have no idea where he got it—and kicked off the alien's helmet. He took the knife and then started to…well, let's just say that he made the alien's final moments in this life _very_ unpleasant.

As this was going on, one of the passing JOTUN gondolas broke off from the main group of machines and backed into the gate of the complex, its rear spill-ramp lowering itself down to the ground, releasing a group of the spidery JOTUN all-in-ones, which skittered past us towards the tower.

Critchley helped me down the two ladders to the ground, and I hobbled over to the gondola just as Stisen, Burdick, Carrol, and Lyons all tended to Byrne. The four recruits lifted the big Irishman, moving him towards the gondola.

"Where are they going?" Burdick asked, gesturing with his head towards the all-in-ones that were moving towards the tower.

"Who cares?" Stisen shrugged. "_We're_ getting the hell back into town." They pulled Byrne into the back of the gondola and propped him up against the back of the riding space. The Irishman was looking pretty bad; that alien had really beaten the living _shit_ out of him.

Billings and the others finished up with the other alien on the ground, which was now more or less deceased. Billings paused and made sure he spat on the dead alien's crushed skull before joining us. They piled into the gondola after Byrne and his helpers. Dempsey turned around and extended a hand, hauling Critchley and I up as well.

The gondola's loading ramp folded up and the JOTUN got back moving again. It turned away from the mass driver and headed northwest towards the Utgard Highway. It maxed the power output to its engines and really started to speed through the corn. Once it reached the highway, we were moving at a good ninety miles per. I really hoped we wouldn't run into any of the alien dropships, but I wasn't too worried. Mack had probably used his JOTUN dusters to make short work of anything non-human that prowled the skies. Why else had the aliens attacked the reactor with only three ground vehicles? We had all been expecting an aerial attack.

I crawled to the back of the storage bed, sitting back against the metal wall next to Byrne. Worthington was there too, along with two others who had been dealt semi-serious wounds in the battle. Byrne was the only one who was in real bad shape, though. The rest of us would pull through fine, as long as we got medical attention as soon as possible. The sooner I got this damn spike out of my gut, the better.

After he was finished doing what he could for Byrne, Burdick moved over to me. Burdick had been an ambulance corps paramedic before he joined the militia, and he used that knowledge to tend to us wounded as best he could. He packed the area around the spike in my stomach with biofoam and gave me an icepack, telling me to keep the pressure until the biofoam congealed.

Byrne made eye contact with me and tried again to speak, but all he could manage were garbled grunts. Until Doc Healy reset his jaw, the Irishman wouldn't be speaking at all. Instead, he lifted a hand, holding it out towards me. His intent was clear.

I smiled, grasping his hand and shaking it firmly.

Byrne repeated the gesture with all of the others who were next to him before he lay his head back against the metal wall and gave up the fight to stay conscious.

I leaned back as well. I watched the sky as we sped up the highway, watched the wispy white clouds pass by, watched the flocks of birds making their way to their homes for the evening. Epsilon Indi was going down in the west. When it rose again, there would be no more humans left on this planet.

I relaxed, crossed my legs over each other, and waited. We had an elevator to catch.


	14. I Chapter 14: Leaving Home

Chapter Fourteen: Leaving Home

**February 23, 2525 (Military Calendar) \  
Harvest, Epsilon Indi System**

We saw the Tiara elevator strands before we saw Utgard. The JOTUN gondola had already moved up and past the Bifrost, so we weren't very far from the capital of Harvest.

I looked up and was able to see the seven glittering lines extending from the horizon all the way up into the sky until we could no longer see them. I knew that they ended at the Tiara, thousands of kilometers above…it was just too far away to observe with the naked eye.

We had been riding in the storage bay of a JOTUN gondola for the past four or five hours. Mack had sent it to pick us up at the Harvest reactor complex, where we had been defending his data center against an alien ground assault. Now…battered, exhausted, and bloodied…we were returning to Utgard.

We _were_ close enough to see the cargo containers that were ascending the strands, however. They were going up in pairs, roughly one thousand refugees in each container. There were container pairs climbing up the strands as far as the eye could see—this had probably started the moment Mack fired the mass driver. Once the alien warship had been taken out, there was nothing left to endanger the elevator strands…other than the strain the massive weight of all the containers would put on the Tiara. This operation far exceeded the Tiara's safety protocols…but there was no other option. It was this, or…well, there _was_ no 'or'. It was just this.

The skyline of Utgard came into view an hour later, just as Epsilon Indi was saying its goodbyes.

"We're almost there!" Carrol raised his voice loud enough to wake up anyone who was sleeping. This was good because it saved us the trouble of waking people up later on and bundling half-asleep recruits with weapons into a cargo container. This was also _bad_ because all of us were awake to see all hell break loose.

A horrible groaning sound came over us. It wasn't overly loud—it was distant—but it was a _strong_ noise, roaring just below the range of comfortable hearing. It was almost like those movies where you'd see a nuke go off in the distance, and you know that the noise should be deafening, but all you hear is a low, deep rumble. That groaning noise we heard sounded exactly like that.

Then we heard an even louder noise that sounded like screeching metal. Actually, it _was_ screeching metal.

"Oh my God…" Worthington, who was lying next to me, breathed. That scared me. Worthington never _ever_ spoke…unless the situation was worth a few of his words.

The number-seven elevator strand—the one on the far right—had snapped somewhere up in the sky. We watched in absolute horror as the metal strand fell from the sky, its twisting length flashing as it reflected the setting sun. The ragged top of the strand curved down, pulled by gravity, while the rest crumpled into the ground.

We could feel the ground shake as the massive orbital elevator crashed back to the earth. Huge pieces of debris were sent spinning through the air, landing dozens of kilometers away from each other. The strand itself curved off to the south and slammed down across the Plains of Ida.

Several recruits were shouting, "_Hol-ee shit!_" at the top of their lungs. The rest of us—me included—simply sat in silence, mouths agape at what had just happened.

"How many people were on that strand…?" Stisen wondered aloud.

"Too many," Carrol murmured.

I hadn't seen how many container pairs had been on that strand, but I knew the number wouldn't be low. How many thousands of people had we just watched die? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Twenty-five?

And where would it all end? Once the aliens finished with this planet, they would just find another one and do the exact same thing. How many _more_ people would have to die before we got our act together? Again…I had a very bad feeling that the number wouldn't be low.

We made the rest of the trip in silence. None of us said a word. When the JOTUN pulled into the cargo super-shed of the number-three strand, we all filed out of the gondola. Worthington carried Byrne on his back and Critchley gave me support as I limped down the spill ramp.

All of the civilians had been evacuated already…or were dead. The entire city of Utgard was now a ghost town. Or ghost city. Devoid of all human life. It was just us, and we were about to leave.

There was one last cargo container waiting for us in the shed. It was empty, so we had more than enough space. Once we were in, that was it.

"Alright, everyone inside!" Stisen stood in the cargo container's entrance, waving us on. Most of the uninjured militiamen clambered inside, with the stronger ones helping us wounded messes in next.

The interior of the cargo container was filled with enough rations for a thousand people for a several-week-long slipspace jump. We certainly wouldn't starve to death.

Once all of us were inside the cargo container, it lurched and began to move along the track that ran through the loading shed. Our container rumbled through the opening in the shed and went onto the loading rail that ran right up to the base of the number-three strand.

The entire container rattled as its docking clamps latched onto the number-three strand. There was a one-minute pause, and then we started going up. The ground fell away as the orbital elevator whisked our container up into the sky. Before we reached the cloud line, we sealed the cargo container's vacuum airlock entrance. It wouldn't do for all of us to suffocate in outer space after all we've been through.

Even so, I was still able to watch our progress through the long, column-shaped portholes set into the sides of the cargo container at regular intervals. The sky had already been a dark blue as twilight set in on the ground, so there wasn't much change in color. The dark blue gradually darkened to a deep navy, then the star-sprinkled black void of outer space.

Again, I'm not a religious man, but I was fervently praying in my mind that our strand didn't snap like the number-seven. That's something worth praying for, isn't it? I think it was. There was a lot that could go wrong here. The line could snap, the weight could prove too much for the Tiara to handle... I had learned that if the drag on the Tiara's strands was too great, it would cause the space station to drift. And if the Tiara drifted too far off, it would break its geosynchronous orbit over Utgard, and then Harvest's rotation would drag it out of the sky, wrapping its strands around the equator like a spool spinning up a length of thread. I really hoped _that_ didn't happen, either.

I crawled over to the container wall and sat back against it, sitting right next to one of the portholes. I gazed down at my world as we rose higher and higher above it. I looked down through the traces of wispy white cirrus clouds at the beautiful amber and golden fields visible from orbit, the jagged gray and brown line that was the Bifrost, the vibrant greens of the southern forests, the sparkling blues of the polar seas, Hugin and Munin, all struck through with the varying shades of shadow and light…it was beautiful land that we were abandoning.

_Not abandoning_… I reminded myself. We would be back one day.

The whole ascent took half an hour. I think normally it would have taken longer, but Mack and Sif—the AI who ran the Tiara—were most likely rushing us up. Speed was _everything_ in this phase of the operation.

Eventually, a fluttering in my stomach told me that we were decelerating. After a minute, we lurched to a stop. There was a dull thunk and a hissing noise as the airlock unsealed and slid open, revealing a dim gantry with semi-transparent walls. Andersen and the rest of 1/B were waiting for us on the other side of the airlock. They hurried into our container, exchanging hugs and handshakes with us. They were just glad to be out of that space station.

We could all hear the sound of distant weaponsfire, which meant that the aliens still had a significant presence on the Tiara. Well, it had never been 1st Platoon's mission to cleanse the aliens in the first place; their mission had been only to keep them from interfering with Phase Two of the evacuation whilst the cargo containers were passing through. They had successfully completed that mission; all they had to do now was get the hell out of the station before Mack blew it to kingdom come.

That was one of the last parts of the evacuation—we all knew the aliens would return to Harvest, and one of the first things they would do would be to plunder all of the databanks stored in the Tiara. Too much vital information was stored in those databanks, information we couldn't afford losing to the aliens. The space station had to be destroyed.

A steady trickle of 1/A and 1/C recruits began running down the gantry and into the container as well. The stragglers were, for the most part, healthy recruits helping wounded comrades along. After a few minutes, Doc Healy finally turned up. The bloodied, exhausted medic was carrying Dass, the leader of 1/A, who was unconscious with several plasma burns riddling his back.

Last to arrive was Jenkins and Staff Sergeant Johnson, both of whom were supporting a heavily-wounded Forsell, and Lieutenant Commander al-Cygni. They slowly made their way down the gantry towards us.

Some of the insectoid bugger aliens and the small gray-skinned fuckers were in hot pursuit. I picked up the BR55 battle rifle I had taken from Staff Sergeant Byrne—he was too wounded to use it, anyway—and crawled over to the entrance, peering through the rifle's optics scope.

I nearly creamed my pants when I fired the rifle—it was so streamlined, so efficient, so accurate…it was every infantry marksman's wet dream. I fired in three-round bursts. I would sight my target and shoot—three shots later, the targeted alien's skull exploded in a shower of red gore. Then I would move to another target.

Just when I was starting to have fun, though, the last of our comrades reached the container. "Seal it! Seal it!" Johnson barked. "Get us the hell out of here!"

The pod lurched again as the airlock sealed and we detached from the docking gantry. My heart began to race as I felt our container accelerate. This was the final part of our journey up the strand—once we reached our critical speed and trajectory, we would be flung free of the strand and sent hurtling through space right into a waiting propulsion pod.

The g-force ripped at our faces as our velocity increased by several times. Then, the moment we were flung free from the strand, somewhere between the lower and upper arcs of the Tiara, anyone who was standing up was hurled to the ground. I looked through the porthole as some of the closer stars seemed to move a sliver as we shot through the void. The one thing that really changed was Harvest.

My planet gradually grew smaller and smaller until I could see at least half of it in the porthole. I could see the double-arc of the Tiara, as well as the six sparkling lines that were its strands angling down towards Utgard. I actually saw the flash of the mass driver as it fired. The slug tore right through the Tiara, destroying its superstructure. The space station floundered and collapsed in on itself as it fell, burning, into Harvest's atmosphere. That was that.

That was when we felt another bump, followed by the faint mechanical hum of the docking clamps engaging once again. That must have been the propulsion pod.

There was a faint, omnipresent rushing sound that began to envelop the container-turned-freighter. Everything started to rattle and shake as the propulsion pod's Shaw-Fujikawa translight engine fired up, tearing a hole in the normal dimensions of outer space and slipping into the dimensional no-man's-land of slipspace.

The moment this occurred, the rushing sound increased in volume, coming to a climax…then there was silence. And darkness.

Halogen gas light tubes flickered to life, illuminating the interior of the cargo container. Everyone released the collective breath they had been holding since the acceleration had started. There was utter silence for a few minutes as everyone actually came to terms with what had just happened.

Lieutenant Commander al-Cygni climbed into the lift that took her up to the cabin of the propulsion pod above, but no one else moved.

"We…we made it?" Dempsey was the first to speak, sounding tentative at first, but with growing confidence. "We _made_ it!"

"Holy fucking horseshit…" Billings murmured. Many others whispered other things along the same lines as Billings's astute, heartfelt statement. I think that, deep down, none of us had really expected to leave Harvest alive. There had been so much that could have gone wrong, so many odds stacked against us…now that we had come through alive, all we could feel was cold, numb relief. No celebrating, no joyful exclamations, no singing, no dancing…just relief.

Healy tended to Dass, Forsell, and the heavily-wounded first, getting them sedated. He then fixed Staff Sergeant Byrne up as best as he could, starting by resetting his dislocated jaw.

Byrne worked his jaw around a bit and muttered a few choice oaths under his breath.

"Charming," Healy chuckled as he set the Irishman's arm.

"Makin' sure the facilities work," Byrne replied. "I'll club you in your pretty-boy face after you're finished with the wounded."

The medic then attended to me. "Garris, what _have_ you been playing with?" he asked me, tapping the spike in my stomach. He gently eased the piece of metal out of my gut and filled my abdominal cavity with biofoam. I shuddered as the cool, healing polymer expanded throughout my stomach and abdomen area. It felt like a colony of fire-ants was crawling around in there.

Healy noticed my discomfort, but he only gave a quick shrug. "Stings like hell, sure, but it's saved more lives than either of us could ever count. Including yours, now."

After a while, most of us had gone to sleep, but I stayed awake. I sat in front of the porthole, looking out of it even though there was nothing to see. There was no visible light in slipspace, so all we would be able to see would be…well, _nothing_. I just sat there; for how long, I don't know. A couple of hours, at least.

"It gets easier, you know."

I looked up from my reverie. Byrne was sitting next to me, also staring out the porthole into the void. I hadn't heard him move. I raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

"Dealin' with the aftermath," the Irishman said. "I know how everyone's feeling, right now…almost like your insides are caught in a vice? It's like that for everyone their first time. Combat messes with your mind; it really does…but after a while, you don't mind it anymore."

"You become desensitized?" I asked.

"That's one way of putting it," Byrne agreed. He looked up and fixed me firmly in his gaze. "This isn't meant to be heartwarming, shiteface; quite the opposite. It's _bad_ that we—soldiers—become so desensitized to the death and suffering we see on a daily basis…" the Irishman sighed. "It ain't healthy. But if it _weren't_ for that desensitivity…we'd all go bleedin' insane."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked the Irishman finally. I quickly added a hasty, "Sir?"

"I just woke up a few minutes ago, and practically everyone else is asleep," Byrne reasoned. He chuckled at my reaction and went on. "But the real reason is that you're one of the lads in my platoon who I think showed the most potential to be a soldier. You're going to need to be strong if you want to survive more than this battle. These alien bastards…they'll be back, and they'll visit more worlds. There's goin' to be a ton of fighting in the future, and you're going to be participating in it. Better you know-"

I let slip a cynical snort. "What am _I_ going to be doing in the future, sir? I'm a colonial militiaman without a colony. That's like having a king without a kingdom. We failed."

"Your objective was to defend the people of Harvest," Byrne reminded me. "They got off-planet before the aliens fried 'em. You succeeded. And besides…being a member of the colonial militia is all well and good, but… The UNSC is going to need every good soldier it can find. There are better ways for you to serve Humanity than as a colonial militiaman, Garris."

"Humanity?" I echoed, noticing how he was calling me by my actual name, now, and not 'Shiteface'. "Or the UNSC?"

"They are one and the same," Byrne countered.

"Really."

"_Yes,_" Byrne replied. When I looked at him, I saw no doubt in his eyes. "The UNSC, like all governments, has its flaws. I've served it for several years, now; I can say that more than anybody else. The UNSC makes the rules. And while the rules may not be perfect…the alternative is hell. These aliens want our blood, Garris. I'm giving you the chance to help us stop them. I can have you transferred."

"Transferred?" At first I didn't understand what the Irishman was getting at…but then the realization hit me like a wake-up slap. "Me? A marine?" Then, with a little more confidence: "_Really?_"

"That's up to _you_ more than it's up to me," Byrne replied. "FLEETCOM _will_ take Harvest back…and you are one of the few people in the UNSC who has experience dealing with these aliens. We'll need people like you to lead the charge. Think about it."

I pictured it in my mind: Private Garris of the UNSC Marine Corps…battle armor shining, rifle blazing, tearing through hordes of aliens who had dared to invade our land. It nearly made me laugh, the ridiculousness of it all. But still… Byrne had a point when he said that there were better ways for me to serve Humanity than the Colonial Militia.

"Will I get to kill alien sons of bitches?" I asked finally, just for confirmation.

"Yes."

"A _lot_ of alien sons of bitches?"

"As many as you want."

The corners of my mouth tugged upwards in a wry grin. "Alright, then. I'm in."

* * *

**END OF SECTION I**


	15. II Chapter 15: Not What I Expected

**Section II: War

* * *

**

Chapter Fifteen: Not What I Expected

**November 12, 2536 (Military Calendar) \  
Verus III, Alpha Tauris System**

"Drink one more of those suckers, Sarge, and you'll probably have to keep your liver in a biohazardous waste container," the bartender chuckled jokingly as he filled my glass with whiskey for the fourth or fifth time.

I knew the man was only making talk, though. The drunker I got, the more money he raked in. It was a win-win. He gets more money and I care even less about the shithole I've been stuck in for the past sixty days.

Welcome to Verus III, the definition of 'backwater piece of nowhere'. It was nearly as far away from Earth as Harvest was…but Harvest was not a backwater colony. It had been one of the UNSC's main sources of food. It had actually served a purpose…first as the UNSC's breadbasket, and then as a grave for thousands of young men who had fought to retake it. Verus III existed for no other reason than to give an overpopulated Human race someplace to spill over into.

It took us five years to get Harvest back. Back in my colonial militia days, we had carried out a massive operation that evacuated all of Harvest's surviving civilians, effectively abandoning the colony itself. Thirteen months later, the UNSC had a massive military mobilization—the likes of which haven't been seen since the Interplanetary Wars of centuries ago.

During that thirteen-month interim, I had been training my teenage ass off on Reach. Sure, Staff Sergeant Byrne made sure I was transferred into the UNSC Marine Corps, but I still had to undergo boot camp at Needle Point. I 'graduated' just as the counterattack on Harvest began. Admiral Preston Cole took us all to Harvest as part of Battlegroup X-Ray: the largest battlegroup ever assembled in UNSC history. He defeated the Covenant Navy over Harvest, losing thirteen ships of his own…and then the marines were sent in.

I spent five years…five long, fucking years fighting in that mud that had used to be my home. And what had it all been for, huh? What had we accomplished? We took Harvest back, eventually…after losing eleven thousand marines. But Harvest was gone. The Covenant had glassed everything except for the northern regions. The only thing we 'won' had been a cinder. Ashes and bones. Nothing more.

A marine served a tour of duty, and then was shelved until the service called him or her forth once more. After my five years fighting to take back what remained of Harvest, I was commemorated for my service, promoted to sergeant, and sent on leave to Reach. This had been before the UNSC realized how serious the threat represented by the Covenant was.

Once it had become clear that Humanity's very existence was threatened by the Covenant, things changed. A marine now served either until he grew past the legal age limit—which had been raised to fifty-five—or if he was wounded badly enough to earn a discharge. The only other way out was a KIA.

Not that many people were looking for a way out. I certainly wasn't. Where would a man go if he left the Corps? He would go back to his home on some sweet little colony. And there he would wait…until the Covenant paid his home a visit and glassed the shit out of it, and him along with it.

Many of my comrades were like me; homeless. Harvest had been my home, and now it was gone. Many of my comrades were also from colonies that had been glassed by the Covenant…and unlike Harvest, there had been no time to evacuate the civilians.

Ironically, putting their lives on the hair-thin line by joining the Corps was the reason they're still _alive_ today. Had they not been in the marines, they would have been living a nice and 'safe' life on the colony…just in time to get burned from orbit. Only they weren't, because being in the Corps ensured that they were off-planet when the Covenant made their house-call. Kind of weird the way the universe works these days, ain't it?

Anywho, myself and my fellow members of the 9th Force Recon Battalion now found ourselves floundering in the mud of Verus III…a remote colony with a predominantly English culture, population of eight hundred thousand—well, _former_ population of eight hundred thousand—three major cities, hundreds of smaller towns, and some of the shittiest weather you'll ever come across. I actually found it amusing that the colony which was predominantly made up of Englishmen had awful weather, just like England on Earth. Bad weather just seems to follow them everywhere.

Honestly, I think the only place where weather can actually be considered crappier than this weather on Verus III would be Sigma Octanus IV, where rainstorms could last weeks. Right now, I believe it was hailing.

I was currently sitting on a stool in the Winchester, the old-style pub in the center of Cedar Rapids, the medium-sized town my unit had been fighting tooth and nail for the past two weeks to defend. Captain Howell, my company commander, had given me a day's quasi-leave. A real leave would have been getting turned loose to a cushy resort on Earth, or even Emerald Cove. Here, though…'leave' meant getting just a few hours-worth of downtime to take your mind off the slaughter.

Well, there was only one way to do that without killing yourself, and that was to start drinking whiskey and never stop until you started seeing five of everything. Hell, if I went overboard, they could always flash-clone a new liver for me. Gotta love modern technology.

"I think you've had enough for tonight, Sarge," the bartender said finally after I drained my glass and asked for another refill.

"What do you care; you're getting paid even more for this," I grumbled. My speech wasn't quite slurred yet, but it was getting there. Ten years of practicing had given me the ability to hold more than my fair share of liquor without actually getting hammered. This was good and bad for me, for various reasons.

"Not really," the bartender chuckled. "The gents who pay me my salary are…out of town, shall we say? Only reason I stayed here was to run this place for you blokes…and I'm not exactly helping to keep the Covenant from leveling this place if I willingly let every soldier who comes in 'ere get so bent out o' shape they can't even remember their own name the next morning."

"Fair enough, I guess…" I murmured. "Ain't nothin' really happening out on the line…we sit in our trenches, the Covenant sits in theirs. Anyone who tries to attack the other side's defenses are instantly torn apart…so we sit. And wait. And I really shouldn't be telling you this…but what the hell, you know?"

"Mm," the bartender hummed.

I checked the time on the clock behind the bartender's head. It was 2316 hours. About time for me to be heading back. Technically, I didn't have to be back until 0600 tomorrow morning, but I didn't see much sense in delaying the inevitable. Besides, I would get a chance to sleep off the effects of the whiskey…if the Covenant attacked, I wasn't going to be much use if I was too hung over to aim a rifle. Then the Captain would _really_ have my ass in a sling.

"I'm gonna head back," I announced finally, grabbing my helmet from the counter. I was already in my battle armor—I hadn't even bothered to take it off.

"You boys are doing us all proud out there," the bartender said in farewell. "May God watch over you."

"Right," I murmured in reply. I thanked him for his hospitality, grabbed my poncho and BR55 battle rifle from the entry room, and pushed my way out the entrance/exit doors and into the stormy night.

Yep, it was still hailing. The small chunks of solid, icy precipitation pattered off of my helmet and my waterproof poncho. The town of Cedar Rapids was built like an old-fashioned European town—it even had cobbled streets. The streetlights illuminated some of the darkness, but not much. You could see the hail falling through the inky blackness for a few feet around each light, but nothing beyond that.

That was alright, though. I knew the way back to my position with my eyes closed. I walked down the street half a block until I found the mongoose ATV I had driven up here. I straddled the seat and kicked the motor to life. It gave a brief roar before the faulty muffler kicked in, lowering the volume of the engine to an even hum.

I hit the accelerator and the bike leaped forward, speeding down the streets of Cedar Rapids. The town was not a large one, so it wasn't long until I had left the main parts of town and was speeding through the suburban sectors on the fringes and outskirts.

I could hear the faint _booms_ of our artillery dueling the Covenant's from the center of town, but now it was getting up to its normal volume. Although the sound could be deafening, I had gotten used to it. The artillery during the Harvest Campaign had become a part of everyday life for the marines who had fought there. It had gotten to the point where we could even sleep like logs with the fireworks going off right over our heads.

Even though it was storming, I could still see flashes of blue in the distance. Plasma bombardment. It wasn't hitting my unit's sector, but _someone_ down the line was getting pounded. Probably the 118th.

"Flame!" a voice suddenly shouted.

I rolled my eyes and slowed down so the sentry wouldn't get jumpy. It must have been a new kid at the job; most sentries didn't even bother asking for the response/counterresponse these days. I didn't even remember what the response _was_ anymore.

"_Flame!_" the sentry shouted again.

"I don't remember the goddamn countersign!" I yelled right back. "Go on and shoot me if it's so damn important to you."

"You're supposed to say _phoenix_…" the sentry muttered dejectedly as I roared right past his checkpoint.

I kept following the pitted and torn road until it broke into a fork. I took the right-hand road and followed it for two or three kilometers, at which point I veered off of the road and found myself driving through a forest of pine trees. The canopy was thick enough to stop some of the hail from falling through.

I saw lights up ahead about fifteen minutes later. That was our battalion HQ, where Colonel Ndebele headed up operations for the 9th Force Recon Battalion.

Our battalion was not a common rifle unit; it was a force recon unit, which usually meant that we were the first to go into a hot zone. We would carve ourselves a healthy little foothold, and then hold onto it until support came. It was a job…what we did best. Unfortunately, it was a high-risk job…we had never completed a mission without suffering losses—usually inexperienced replacements.

We were not part of a regiment, either; our battalion was independent. We still reported to General Lafayette, the commander of our division, but we were on equal footing with the other regiments. That was also why we had a colonel leading our battalion, not a major.

I pulled into the motor pool outside of the command tent, killing the mongoose's engine and swinging myself off. I straightened my helmet, slung my BR55 over my shoulder, and strode right into the tent.

The inside of the command tent was bustling with activity. COM operators were constantly intercepting and sending transmissions, coordinating assaults, and processing requests for support. There was a team of analysts that were decoding Covenant dispatches, as well. Quartermasters and medical runners were also there, fighting to get supplies down to their sections of the line—it was chaos.

Colonel Ndebele was in the center of it all. Our Colonel was a tall, heavily-built individual who looked like he could wrestle an Elite to the ground. He had coal-black skin and a completely shaven head. I think he was of Zulu descent, but that was hearsay. Probably true, looking at the man, but I had no way of confirming the fact, short of actually _asking_ the Colonel. And this was no time for a discussion of heritage.

I didn't bother the Colonel; he had enough shit on his plate. Instead, I quickly checked in with Major Talbot, his battalion executive officer, who didn't look _quite_ as busy. "Sergeant Alley—_Albert_ Garris," I was quick to correct myself from saying my preferred nickname, "reporting back to the line from leave, sir," I told him when he asked for identification.

"Which company are you from?" the Major asked me next.

"Alpha Company, sir."

"One of Howell's boys?" the Major cleared his throat and nodded, waving me off. "Alright…your company has shifted position five klicks north. There's a supply convoy rolling through here to that part of the line; why don't you hitch a ride with it? They're leaving right now, so hurry."

"Sir," I nodded, raising my hand to my brow in a quick salute. The Major saluted me back and I let my hand drop, turning on my heel and walking out of the command tent.

I was relieved to be back outside, away from the hot, stuffy, crowded tent. A man could get claustrophobia in that place…only places worse than that were the triages of field hospitals, where the bodies of wounded men could really pile up.

I spotted a group of ten armored trucks pulling out of the motor pool, heading into the forest. I swore and sprinted after them. I just barely managed to catch up with the final truck as it was rolling out. "You fellas goin' out to Alpha Company?" I asked the man in the driver's cab.

"We're passing through there, yeah," the driver said. "Orders are to dump half our load there, and then drop everything else off at your battalion's Charlie Company down the line. Intel reports are sayin' that shit's s'posed to get real heavy tomorrow. Here, hop on."

I climbed into the truck's passenger seat, getting myself settled as the driver threw the truck into gear and sped off after his comrades. "Word has it you boys have been getting the shit pounded out of you this past month," the driver said, squinting to try to see what was ahead of him in the darkness.

"You could say that," I agreed. The driver was right, to an extent. My unit had been mercilessly fed through a woodchipper during the past month and a half's retreat. That's all we had been doing, lately; retreating.

When the Covenant had invaded the Alpha Tauris System, the UNSC sent Battlegroup Nile to respond. My battalion, and the division it was attached to, was part of the 16th MEF, or 'Marine Expeditionary Force'. It was all of the 16th who were on Verus III.

The Covenant unloaded legions upon legions of their soldiers into the southern reaches of Illen—the largest continent of Verus III. The battle had been going well at first…we had been steadily driving them back into the ocean, but then they received reinforcements from the other continent, as well as a seemingly-endless amount of their armor—wraith tanks, specter assault vehicles, ghosts—not to mention their air support. I lost count of the amount of banshees and seraphs that howled over our heads every night.

Our own air force was getting mauled in the skies. There was a Covenant assault carrier in orbit around Verus III. Why it hadn't glassed us, I really don't know. The Covenant always have their reasons…maybe we had something on this wretched planet that they wanted. Whatever. The point was that that assault carrier had been released waves and waves of reinforcements in the beginning. We were in way over our heads.

The Covenant slammed into us one day and the tide turned. Suddenly, _we_ were on the run. My force recon unit's job changed as well—we had to hold the line long enough to buy everyone else enough time to get the hell out. They started pushing us back kilometer by kilometer, day by day...until now, when we were fighting at the borders of Illen's northern provinces. Everything else had been lost. Somehow we were still alive…but we had to be on borrowed time.

That had been around a month and a half ago, when the Covies took steroids and started to maul us. We had been steadily retreating north ever since, desperately trying to make a stand. Twelve days ago we had dug in here at Cedar Rapids, and so far we had been able to hold it reasonably well. There was no telling how much longer we would succeed, however. The Major had just told me that my company had 'relocated' north five kilometers. That meant that the division's lines were moving once again.

I knew that the remnants of Battlegroup Nile were still in orbit. The Covenant assault carrier had been trying to knock them out for weeks, but the UNSC vessels always remained on the opposite side of the world as the Covenant ship. This strategy was working so far—we were getting all of the civilians off-planet as fast as we could. It all hinged on those ships, though. If Battlegroup Nile got fried, then we were stuck on Verus III without a way off.

No one had any illusions of sweeping the Covenant off of this colony. Verus III was already gone; we were just slowly, steadily making our way north to Wiltshire, our evac zone. My unit would be one of the last to reach that place—with us always on the tail-end of the retreat, we'd be lucky to reach Wiltshire at all.

"This is your stop," the supply truck driver said to me as the convoy rumbled to a halt. Forms and silhouettes of men and women emerged into the meager light provided by the headlights of the trucks.

I thanked the driver and clambered out of the truck, pushing the door shut behind me. I moved past groups of marines who were hurrying over to the first five trucks, unloading the rations and ammunition stored in their cabs.

I wasn't exactly famous in my company, but most of the people there knew my name at least. I was one of the only marines in the 9th Force Recon who had fought in—and _survived—_the Harvest Campaign. Just me and my oldest friend, who I was looking for right now.

I spotted Private First Class Banks, one of the men in my squad, helping out with the supply unloading. "Yo, Mitch!" I hollered over to him. "Where's the platoon?"

"Straight ahead!" PFC Banks gestured into the darkness. "Just keep on walking; you'll run into the trenches!"

"Thanks!" I yelled back. I took the marine's advice, forging ahead into the night, walking between the trees. The trenches were placed at the very edge of the forest; when I looked beyond the trenches through my BR55's scope—on its infrared setting, naturally—I could see a wide-open field, with rocky hills several miles distant. I knew that the Covenant were behind or in those hills. Now they just had to cross that field to advance. They would lose thousands trying to drive us off, no doubt…but in the end, I had no doubt that they would succeed. It was only a matter of time.

That didn't change the fact that we were still going to make the bastards pay for every inch of land they took.

"_Alley!_ Get your ass in here before a jackal sniper takes off your head!"

I already knew who it was I was jumping into a foxhole with. It was the only person in my unit who called me by my first name. "You know the worst thing about being able to hold your liquor, Dempsey?" I grunted to my squadmate and oldest friend as I slid into the foxhole, slipping off my poncho and burrowing under the army blanket at the bottom. "Means you can't get fucking _drunk_ so easily anymore, so you can't forget about everything that's happened to you since you popped out of your mother."

"Yeah, that's kind of a bitch," Dempsey chuckled, moving over to give me more room.

Dempsey and I had managed to not get separated after our first brush with the Covenant on Harvest. He had trained on Reach with me, and then fought alongside me in the subsequent Harvest Campaign. He was a corporal, now, though I knew it wouldn't be long until he made sergeant. The only reason I made sergeant before he did was because…well, I don't really know. It didn't really matter, though—we weren't competing or anything. But if we were, I'd be winning. That's a nice thought, eh?

"Why did you guys move back five kilometers?" I asked next. "I go on leave, have a semi-good time in the Winchester, and then I come back here only to find that we got pushed north five klicks. What happened; did the Covies attack?"

"Naw," Dempsey shook his head, running a hand through his blond hair. "The 118th Division off to the east got driven back to the Antonine Forest, so _our_ division had to pull back to fix the line. Not our fault."

I was silent for a few seconds, but I then said, "Alright…alright, I'll buy that… It was interesting, though; I hitched a ride down here with a supply convoy, and the dude who I was riding with said that there were intel reports of some big Covenant activity that was going to hit us tomorrow."

"Makes sense," Dempsey conceded. "Something's got the officers' panties in a bunch; the el-tee and the Captain were being constantly called away for briefings. That only happens when the brass is afraid of…well, afraid of something, you know?"

"Ah well, it doesn't really matter," I sighed, settling back down into a more comfortable sleeping position. Tomorrow's problems could wait until _tomorrow_. "I just need to sleep off that whiskey before the hangover cracks my head open."

Dempsey snorted. "Nighty-night, Sergeant Sweetheart."

"Fuck you."

I was grateful that the angle of the hail kept it from falling into the foxhole. I slipped my helmet off, laid my BR55 down next to me, and pulled the army blanket over my head. I then performed one of the sacred arts of a soldier and fell into a deep sleep in less than fifteen seconds.


	16. II Chapter 16: Good Morning, Elites

Chapter Sixteen: Good Morning, Elites

**November 13, 2536 (Military Calendar) \  
Verus III, Alpha Tauris System**

"_Get down!_"

I threw myself to the dirt just in time. A pair of blazing blue plasma grenades sailed over my foxhole. I didn't see where they landed, but I heard the twin blasts as they went off, showering Dempsey and me with dirt and splinters of wood.

"God _damn_, these fuckers just don't know when to quit," Dempsey growled, straightening his helmet.

"We wouldn't be stuck in a ten-year war if they _did,_" I grunted, standing back up and shouldering my BR55.

It had started at 0500, just before dawn. The Covies had opened up with their customary plasma bombardment. Huge bolts of roiling white plasma energy would arc up into the sky, lighting up the pre-dawn darkness, before coming down right on our heads. The roar was unimaginable; the plasma bombs would slam into the earth, sending globs of energy flying all over the place, disintegrating trees, and vaporizing anything that was in their direct path. From where I was sitting, it sounded and felt almost as if the Gods of Olympus were personally venting their fury at us.

After the initial bombardment, the barrage thinned out and the Covenant ground forces started moving in. They had to cross the wide-open fields in between our line and the hills in which they had been hiding.

That was where Dempsey and I found ourselves now; huddling in our foxhole, watching as hundreds of the Covenant's finest charged across the grass towards us. The weather had improved from hail to light rain overnight, so that was _one_ thing about today that we could call semi-good.

The Covenant were advancing straight out of a thick fog. The fog was a large steam cloud that was the result of the initial plasma bombardment. When the superheated bolts of plasma streaked through the air, they flash-vaporized all of the rain that got in their path. Keep on firing plasma through the sky like that in a rainstorm for a sustained amount of time, and eventually you got a large fog bank.

The Covies were still out of our weapons range, but they were moving at a good clip. It wouldn't be long, now.

"Covenant plasma bombardment finishes…Covenant advances…" I murmured, watching the Covenant ground forces draw closer and closer. "General Lafayette finally gets word of this new offensive…he radios this in to our heavy guns…and then we have a good ole' HE barbecue in five…four…three…two…"

Just as I raised my hands to the sky after I reached _one_, the ground shook once more, but not with the impact of a plasma strike. Instead, we all heard the booming, rushing sound of artillery shells traveling at subsonic speed.

A wall of flame erupted across the fields as a barrage of our own artillery hit the ground. Our big guns were laying a thermobaric hammerdown on the Covenant, the kind of bombs which sucked up all the surrounding oxygen in order to make a bigger and longer _BOOM_.

Dozens, hundreds of grunts vanished in the flames, obliterated by the might of the UNSC artillery's arsenal.

Humans, for as long as we can remember, have always been masters at inventing newer, better ways to maim and kill ourselves through warfare. People had always wondered when we would finally grow so hell-bent on war that we would wipe ourselves out. Well, I have to say…it's interesting watching the dark side of Humanity now turned against a common enemy. Watching that which had labeled us as barbaric now save our hides. Our very nature and love of war which had threatened to consume us in the past was now the one thing keeping us alive.

The Covenant have been slaughtering us for the past ten years…but they've been paying a steep price for every glassed world. At least their ground forces have…I don't know about their navy.

"You got the timing down-pat," Dempsey chuckled. "Took you a few years, but you got it."

"It's not over," I said. "The Covenant will have traced the source of that artillery strike…and are now sending forces to put our guns out of commission."

Again, right on cue, a formation of seven banshees could be seen flying out of the fog bank, soaring overhead. I hoped that the artillery units had secure anti-aircraft positions…if they didn't, then those banshees would fry them.

I didn't think much of it. We had problems of our own here.

The artillery strike lasted a few more seconds before it petered out. The devastated Covenant ground forces quickly replenished their losses. I saw that the only real Covenant troops that had been at the front of the advance had been the grunt suicide squadrons—files of the small, gray-skinned aliens that simply acted as cannon fodder, charging our front lines and softening us up for the heavier troops behind.

The barrage had wiped out these grunts, and caused superficial damage to the rest of the Covenant advance. A good westerly wind began to blow through here after the barrage fizzled out. The rain started to slant a little more sideways than before, but the wind also cleared away the smoke and thinned out the fog. As the cloud bank was blown away, the true size and strength of our part of the Covenant offensive was revealed.

"Oh…shit…" Dempsey murmured.

"Common, what the _fuck_, man?" Private Esposito was shouting from the next foxhole over. "We fight off _los chingadores_ for two fucking weeks, an' they still can keep on-"

"Shut it, Esposito!" Macintyre, our squad leader, barked from the forward trench. "I want to hear nothin' but the sweet sound o' your MA5B comin' from your foxhole!" the burly Scottish staff sergeant added.

"_Hoo-ah,_" Esposito grunted in response, locking and loading his assault rifle.

I thumbed the safety of my BR55 and aimed over our forward trench at the advancing Covies. Esposito had good reason to mouth off; coming right at us was a legion of at least a thousand Elites.

To clear things up, it wasn't like all one thousand of the split-chin sons of bitches were heading right for my foxhole—they were spread out over a distance of at least a mile, so the rest of the 9th Force Recon, as well as the 118th Divison to the east, was going to be feeling the burn.

The other regiments of my division were all strung out towards the west, as well as the reserve lines to the north of Cedar Rapids. I knew that the 251st Marine Regiment was manning the lines to our direct west…they were going to get hit, too.

The legion of Elites pressed on like the tides, marching ever closer to our kill zone. They weren't alone, either—scores of grunts and formations of jackals marched up with the legion of taller aliens. The jackals had their arm shields charged up to their full strength, which made my life a bit more difficult. Trying to pick off jackals that were hiding behind their shields could have turned me into an alcoholic…except I already _am_ an alcoholic.

I'm a sharpshooter, not a sniper. Most people don't realize that there's a difference, but there is. Sharpshooters are regular grunts who function within a squad or a platoon as a long-range combat specialist. Snipers were different; snipers were independent fighting forces. They did not fight in a regular unit; they fought in sniper teams of two or three people. Snipers were Special Operations warriors, not regular infantry.

This highlights the difference between me—a sharpshooter—and a sniper. I've tried to join a sniper unit many times, but Spec Ops and Battalion keep on rejecting me. I wasn't all that surprised—Spec Ops rarely ever took grunts like me off the line for sniper training just because we were handy with a ranged rifle. But that didn't stop me from trying every year.

"Garris! Get your head back in the fight, devil dog!" Staff Sergeant Macintyre shook me out of my thoughts.

"What fight, Sarge; we're not even shooting yet!" Dempsey shot back.

I ignored the banter between my squadmates, preferring instead to hone my sights, focusing the scope in at the appropriate range. The Elites had stopped advancing just outside our kill zone. I knew what that meant.

The grunts and jackals kept up the advance, but a new sound hummed through the air. Engines.

Phalanxes of ghosts—small, compact, fast-attack vehicles with forward-mounted plasma cannons—leaped out of the gaps in the Elites' lines. Some were driven by Elites, but most had grunts at the helm. It was the same thing every time; ghosts would emerge and strafe us…then heavier armor would emerge, and the Elites would resume their advance under cover.

"_McCandlish!_" the voice of Lieutenant Helen Nelson, our platoon leader, crackled out of the COM. "_Lay some fire down on those sons of bitches!_"

2nd Lieutenant McCandlish was a replacement officer fresh out of OCS who had been assigned to our company last month. Captain Howell didn't know what to do with him, so he passed McCandlish on down to my platoon. Lieutenant Nelson put McCandlish in charge of our heavy weapons squad. He hadn't gotten anyone killed so far, so that was always a good sign.

"_On it,_" Lieutenant McCandlish's response was.

After a few seconds, two blazing orange rockets leaped from somewhere further on down our forward trench, streaking across the grass and slamming into two of the nearest ghosts. Normally it was hard as fuck to aim with the SPNKr rocket launcher, but they had lately received modifications that allowed them to fire heat-seeking projectiles. Hitting enemy vehicles became much easier.

Two more rockets blazed into another pair of ghosts as the two rocket gunners emptied their launchers' second tubes. The same scenario was being repeated up and down the line as heavy weapons specialists unloaded their ordinance on the attacking Covenant vehicles.

Now it was the Covenant's turn. Their ghosts opened fire with their twin plasma cannons, sending plasma projectiles flying right into our line. I ducked down as my foxhole was strafed, small bolts of plasma burning right into the mounds of earth and mud that Dempsey had piled up ahead of time.

Dempsey remained upright, opening fire on the passing ghost with his MA5B. For his trouble, one of the plasma bolts from the ghost's twin cannons seared right past his shoulder, leaving a burn on his armor.

I crawled back up to the top of the mound of earth protecting our foxhole. I didn't open fire, though. In single-shot or triple-burst modes it would be too difficult to hit a ghost driver moving at top speed. The only real way for me to hit a ghost was by going fully automatic, which was a waste with BR55 battle rifles, which used smaller clips.

For now, I held my fire. The Elites would advance, soon. If I was still alive, I would have plenty to shoot at then.

"_Oh, here come the big boys_…" Gunnery Sergeant Harken said over the COM.

Gunny Harken couldn't have put it any better. The ghosts were reeling back a little bit, but not much. While they were doing this, however, Covenant tanks began to move up. They were large, bluish-purple vehicles. The front was curved like a dome with anti-gravity arrays set into the underbelly. The rear of the tank held the plasma mortar, which could be retracted into the hull when not in use. The mortars were out of their shells right now.

We called those tanks 'wraiths'…usually because they were the last thing you saw before they turned you into one.

A fifty-cal opened up off to the left, and then another one further down than the first. The ghosts were pushed back, unable to fend off against this sudden onslaught. Unfortunately, the machine guns' luck ran out when they were put up against the wraiths.

One of the wraiths fired its mortar, sending a sizzling bolt of plasma arcing through the air. I heard the impact. One of the clattering fifties fell silent. More of the wraiths opened fire, wreaking havoc wherever their payloads landed.

Lieutenant Nelson could be heard on the COM hollering at Captain Howell, trying to call in support. It didn't look like we were going to be getting much, however. Our longswords had enough shit on their plate with the scores of banshees and seraphs prowling the skies.

The wraiths did not stray too close to our lines. Instead, they held position a few hundred meters distant, continuously pumping shot after shot into our midst, keeping our heads down. As this was happening, the legion of Elites started moving forward, behind the wave of grunts and jackals. For 'honorable' warriors, they sure didn't seem to mind waiting until everyone _else_ had had their turn before entering a battle.

"Looks like Mr. and Mrs. Split-Chin are finally comin' to dinner," Dempsey chuckled, nodding at the advancing Elites.

"Let me get the door…" I murmured, centering my scope's crosshairs on one of the Elites. It was a red-armored Elite major…pretty much their equivalent of a lieutenant. A white energy blade hissed into existence from its hand and its mandibles splayed wide in a silent roar.

I fired my BR55, sending a three-round burst right into the Elite's forehead. Its head was snapped back by the force of the impact, but its energy shields deflected the actual bullets. I didn't hesitate, though. I pumped more lead the Elite's way. Its shields flickered and were about to go down when it hit the dirt and rolled out of my line of fire.

It was a trade-off with these Elites. They weren't as strong or resilient as Brutes were, but they were faster, more agile, and a _lot_ smarter.

I switched to single-shot mode and started pinging rounds off the helmets of other Elites, throwing them off-balance and spreading chaos through their lines. Some of them fell over dead as our battalion sharpshooters—who used actual sniper rifles—got down to business.

Once the Elites stepped into our kill zone, however, everyone opened up. Captain Howell may have given an 'open fire' order somewhere along the way, but none of us were listening. We had been cooped up in our foxholes and trenches, forced to endure the plasma bombardment of a lifetime, fired upon by Covenant tanks and assault vehicles…now that their ground forces were in our kill zone, those of us who weren't wounded unleashed our impatience in the form of a barrage of lead.

Scores of grunts were torn to pieces by our opening assault. Hundreds of assault rifles firing shredder rounds tend to have that effect. Jackal shields were quickly overwhelmed and the reptilian aliens floundered, desperately trying to find cover before they were turned into Swiss cheese.

The Elites' shields all shimmered as they deflected our weaponsfire. A dozen or two lost their shields and were taken down, but the rest came through more or less unscathed. Normally, we could have held them off like this, but not with wraiths shoving plasma bolts down our throats.

After our initial barrage, our weaponsfire grew sporadic. People were no longer firing at the same time. Now the Elites themselves started firing back. They were armed with a variety of weapons—plasma repeaters, common plasma rifles, energy carbines…I even saw a few carrying fuel rod cannons.

I stopped directly engaging the Elites. Instead, I targeted only those whose shields had been taken out by someone else. In a video-game, it would be called 'kill-stealing,' I believe. Out here, I called it 'saving lives'. It only took a single three-round burst to drop an Elite without shields. I made use of that many times.

Suddenly, Dempsey shouted for me to duck again. My old friend pushed me down just as another bolt of plasma from a wraith seared right overhead. It passed so close over our foxhole that I could actually feel the heat of the plasma on my face. The bolt slammed into the tree behind and to the side of our foxhole, sending a hail of splinters and chips flying all over the place.

I swore as I heard the tree cracking, grabbing hold of Dempsey's shoulder and keeping him from standing up. Sure enough, the tree _did_ fall over…right across our foxhole.

"Aw, _shit!_" Dempsey swore again, beating the downed tree with his fist.

My side was completely blocked up, but Dempsey's side had a semi-reasonable gap. Just as we were getting our bearings back, our COMs crackled again, and not with good news. The channel was flooded with background chatter. When I listened to what the person was saying, I realized that it was a stray transmission on the same freq as my COM. We weren't supposed to be hearing it.

"-a_nger close, I repeat; fire mission is danger close. Recommend you get your boys outta there immediately. Confirm your last-_" static made the rest of the transmission inaudible. Dempsey and I had both heard it, though. The two of us locked eyes, our breaths catching in our throats.

Less than ten seconds later, Lieutenant Nelson came onto the channel. "_2__nd__ Platoon, fall back! I repeat: _fall back!_ Regroup at Rally Point Echo-Red! Squad leaders confirm, over!_"

The four squad leaders in our platoon—including Staff Sergeant Macintyre—all radioed in their confirmation as they fell back with their men.

The words of the stray transmission suddenly seemed so perfectly clear. Division HQ had finally gotten through to the 16th MEF's air wing. This area was about to get flattened.

I saw it in Dempsey's eyes; my squadmate had just realized the same thing.

"Aw, _fuck_ that shit, man!" Dempsey shouted, rolling over to the far side of the foxhole and wriggling out through the space. He turned around and held a hand down to me. I grasped it and Dempsey practically hauled me out by himself. It wasn't a massive feat, though; I had never weighed very much.

Up and down the line, I could see marines breaking cover and running for it. Some of the unlucky ones were cut down by plasmafire or by a needler round before they made it very far, but the vast majority of us made it out. Force Recon marines were hard enough to kill on the line—we refused to die during a retreat.

I sprinted my ass off, vaulting over downed trees, branches…and the occasional corpse. The rest of our squad was about two hundred meters ahead of us. We all didn't break stride; we just kept on running and running…

Plasma mortar shots from wraiths were slamming into the ground all around us. The noise was deafening and constant. There was no escape from it. I didn't _need_ to escape from it—I had gotten used to it during my five years on Harvest—but some of the newer marines were definitely feeling the psychological burn.

Shortsword bombers travel at supersonic speeds, so none of us heard them until they had already passed us by. And when they passed by, we heard them only for an instant before the earth heaved.

I felt an intense heat sear at the back of my neck, but I kept on going. When I risked a glance back, the trenches and foxholes that had been occupied by us only minutes ago had vanished in a hellstorm of billowing walls of flame.

"That smells like napalm, man!" Dempsey cried as we caught up with the rest of our squadmates. "They've started using fucking _napalm_ again!"

Who was the shit-headed general who had ordered an airstrike right on our lines? Sure, we probably would have gotten driven back in a matter of minutes, but _damn_ it all… Having napalm strikes so close to my personal space was not doing any favors for my life expectancy. Being a marine to begin with was bad enough without having to deal with shit like that.

Rally Point Echo-Red was our nearest temporary reserve line about two klicks to the north. In the event of a full retreat—like right _now_—my battalion was to man that line and hold it until the rest of the division got squared away at Echo Line, the permanent reserve line. _Then_ we could run away like good little boys and girls.

The two-kilometer run took us around seven minutes. Sure, we had heavy gear to lug, but we were running for our freakin' _lives_. That gave our feet some goddamn wings.

Staff Sergeant Macintyre was waving us forward, shouting for us to _move_ our asses. I glanced back behind me and saw why: the airstrike had been only partially successful. I think it probably only got the front segment of the Covenant advance. Whatever; the _how_ wasn't important. The _what_ was important, and the _what_ was a wraith tank supported by six ghosts and thirty or so Elites. The firebombing _did_ seem to have taken out most of the Covies' other tanks...but this one was still gonna be tough.

The Echo-Red line was simply two long trenches built back-to-back. Dempsey and I vaulted over the first trench and climbed into the second, resting back against the earthen wall, our chests heaving for breath.

"What the hell were ye two shit-brained idiots doing? Waitin' for the Second fuckin' Coming?" Staff Sergeant Macintyre shouted back to us.

"Tree fell over our foxhole, sir!" I shouted back. "Not my goddamn fault!" I took another half-minute to catch my breath. Sprinting two kilometers in less than eight minutes was a feat, especially seeing as we were wearing battle armor and carrying gear that certainly weighed more than feathers or air.

I then stood back up resting my BR55 on the edge of the trench, sighting one of the ghosts. It loosed off four bursts at the Covie vehicle, but they all just pinged off of the front. Hitting drivers was incredibly difficult. I'd done it a few times, but not many.

"_Platoon, hold this line!_" Lieutenant Nelson's voice came through the COM again. "_We have support on the way! ETA: two minutes!_"

Great. More support. Maybe they'd gas us next.

I shifted my aim from the ghosts, giving up on trying to take out the drivers. Instead, I started taking potshots at the Elites. The grunts that had been advancing with them had been wiped out already by our forward gunners.

Another heavy machinegun emplacement clattered to life off to the right. Sparks flew and shields shimmered as the heavy slugs peppered into the Elites' ranks and clanked off of the wraith tank's armor.

According to Lieutenant McCandlish, we were out of rockets. We had nothing to hit that tank with except small-arms fire. We might as well just pick up rocks and start throwing _those_. They might do more damage.

Eventually, I heard the sound of pelicans. The UNSC dropships had distinct engine noises—I could recognize them a mile away. They landed a distance back behind our lines…then just took off again. But there was something new, another sound…a sound that almost made me leap for joy.

The wraith tank's plasma mortar unfolded out of the Covenant tank's hull and glowed white as it built up the energy required for it to fire. It was aimed right at our line, and we couldn't do a goddamn thing to stop it.

The earth trembled again and something big went _BOOM_, for lack of a better way of describing it, causing my ears to ring. But when I looked up, the wraith tank hadn't fired. Instead, it was reeling back, a huge dent in its frontal armor.

There was another loud blast from behind us, and this time the wraith tank crumpled to the ground, exploding in a fiery haze of blue plasma. More blasts rang out, and the line of advancing Elites faltered as large gaps were blown into it.

The source of our respite crunched out of the trees and over the Echo-Red line. It was an armored platoon of five scorpion tanks. They rumbled forward, their turrets swiveling to acquire new targets as showers of purple needler rounds and blue globs of plasma-shot pinged off their armor.

The five scorpions made short work of the ghosts, sending them all flying high through the air when they tried to attack. Each ghost hit the dirt, then blew up as their failsafes activated.

Fierce and deadly as Elites were, even they could not stand up to UNSC armor. The survivors quickly broke ranks and fell back, probably to our old line.

"_Echo-Red, this is Lieutenant Swell, Famine Contingent leader,_" the leader of the armored unit that had saved us—including the platoon of five scorpions in front of my position—said over the COM, addressing us. "_Fall back to Echo Line. We'll cover your retreat._"

Colonel Ndebele himself got onto the COM and personally thanked Lieutenant Swell and his men. Meanwhile, we dusted ourselves off, picked up our rifles, and fell back to our reserve line.

When we reached Echo Line, it was already manned by marines of the 502nd Regiment, one of our other units. We—the entire 9th Force Recon—were directed to an unmanned position further west. After a half-hour hike, we reached the empty foxholes and trenches and dropped our gear, getting settled in.

Captain Howell made his rounds, asking each platoon and squad leader for casualty reports. As far as I know, my platoon had lost three men in that last attack. That was fairly normal, if a little on the low side.

Dempsey, having sufficiently nestled himself in at the bottom of another foxhole, pulled a cigarette from one of his pockets and put it in his mouth. He then pulled out his lighter and cupped it to the end of the cig, pushing the striker and lighting it. He took a long, blissful draft of the cig, and then exhaled the smoke through his nose.

"Well, that just bought us another day or so," he chuckled. "So, how was your leave in Cedar Rapids?"


	17. II Chapter 17: Counterstrike

Chapter Seventeen: Counterstrike

**November 14, 2536 (Military Calendar) \  
Verus III, Alpha Tauris System**

"Please don't tell me we're playing with deuce as wild," PFC Devereux grumbled as she lowered herself into the foxhole that Dempsey and I had widened specifically for these occasions.

"Mm-hm," I nodded, cutting the deck of playing cards as Staff Sergeant Macintyre dragged over one of the ammo crates. "Just to piss you off, Sophie."

We had a motley crew gathered for our latest game of poker. Myself and Dempsey, Miguel Esposito, Robbie Banks, and Glen Brewster, as per usual. But we had some newcomers today. We had finally managed to convince Staff Sergeant Macintyre to join us. The burly, outspoken Scotsman had always wanted to join us, but his position as our squad leader discouraged him from fraternizing with us in such a way. I think the Covenant offensive yesterday had finally made Macintyre not give enough of a flying fuck about those regulations anymore. If he wanted to play poker with his men, then he was damn well going to!

Sophie Devereux was the other newcomer. She was relatively new in our squad. Rumor had it that she was the sole survivor of her old company, which had been stationed on New Constantinople—which, by the way, we had just received reports of it being glassed. She had been assigned to our squad two weeks ago, right before we had made our stand at Cedar Rapids. She hadn't really started talking until just recently. Getting her to join a card game was remarkable progress on our part.

I always tried to be nice to her and get her to talk, but it was like squeezing water out of a rock. I guess she just went her own pace, that's all. Dempsey just won't get off my fucking back about her. Whenever she spoke to me, I just clammed up and felt like the most awkward thing ever to grace the surface of this planet. What can I say; she's about as pretty as they come.

"Well, it's working," Devereux sighed, muttering something under her breath in French. "I _hate_ playing with wild cards…"

"How about we deal this game _before_ Verus III gets glassed," Macintyre suggested.

"Sounds good to me," Banks chuckled in agreement.

"Oh, go shove it," I flipped Banks the bird, splitting the deck and beginning to shuffle it. "I'm sorry that I'm the only one of us who wasn't too lazy to learn how to shuffle cards. You gents ever wonder what'll happen if I go down? Who's gonna shuffle _then?_ I should get more respect."

"Yeah, okay, whatever; just deal the damn cards," Dempsey interrupted my train of thought.

"Probably the first intelligent thing I've ever heard come out o' your piehole, Demp," Staff Sergeant Macintyre quirked.

"_Ha-ha,_" Dempsey muttered, flicking his eyes up to the heavens.

"We doing five-card or hold 'em?" I asked as I started to deal.

"Go Texas," Private Brewster said.

"Hold 'em it is…" I murmured, dealing two cards to everyone, then laying the deck down on the table next to me. As I did this, everyone pulled out their bags of our poker currency—various types of lone ammunition rounds. None of us had money on the front lines; credits were worthless here. Our marine's pay was also deposited directly into our bank accounts, so we never got any form of paper money up here in the trenches. We also did not have conventional poker chips. Carrying a deck of cards was easy, but having a whole set of poker chips was an unforgivable waste of space.

Therefore, we played poker with bullets.

"I don't understand," Devereux frowned at the pile of ammunition she was handed. "How do we play with…with bullets?"

"Simple," Esposito leaned over and sorted Deverux's bullets into individual piles of each type. "Exact same as poker chips, only with different types of ammunition. These bullets here are the hollow-tipped slugs from our magnums; they are worth one dollar. The 7.62mm full metal jacket rounds from our MA5Bs are worth five dollars…" The Hispanic marine clicked his tongue as he glanced at the other rounds, making sure he remembered which was which. "Garris over there gave us all these semi-armor piercing rounds from his BR55; these suckers are worth ten dollars. Then we have the Soellkraft eight-gauge shells, which are twenty dollars. Lastly are these big sons of bitches," Esposito pointed at the pair of fifty-caliber armor-piercing rounds, "these are from our heavy fifties, and are worth fifty bucks."

"Think you can remember all that?" I asked.

"We'll find out, won't we?" Devereux chuckled.

"I like the way she thinks," Brewster smirked.

"Alright, let's get this started," I cleared my throat, looking over to Devereux, who was sitting to my left. "Soph, you're the small blind. Toss in a magnum slug."

Devereux, acting as the small blind, did as instructed and slid one of her bullets forward. Esposito was the big blind, being the next in the circle. He slid two one-dollar magnum slugs forward.

With that done, everyone picked up their two cards and glanced at what they had.

"My turn?" Dempsey asked.

"Yeah, Demp," Brewster nodded.

"Okay…okay," Dempsey tossed in two of his magnum slugs. Macintyre, Banks, Brewster, and I all did likewise. Now that everyone had bets in the pot, I took three cards from the deck and lay them face-up on the center of the table. I compared those cards to my two. I didn't show any sign of what I had on my face, though there wasn't really any need to. The most I could do was a pair of eights.

Brewster and Dempsey both folded, obviously having nothing even close to what was on the table.

Because I was the dealer, I was the last to bet. Devereux tossed in another pair of magnum slugs. Esposito matched that, and then tossed in a pair of five-dollar 7.62mm rounds. Macintyre grunted under his breath, raising an eyebrow in surprise. The Staff Sergeant still matched Esposito's bet, however. Banks folded after the Sarge placed his bet.

I tossed in the seven dollar's worth of ammunition into the pot. With everyone having placed their bets, I laid out a fourth card next to the three already on the table. I still couldn't make anything better than a pair of eights. "The hell with it…" I muttered, tossing my two cards down in front.

Devereux, Esposito, and Macintyre all upped their bets once more, and I placed the final fifth card down onto the table. Devereux immediately slid one of her shotgun shells forward. Esposito folded, but Macintyre matched the bet.

"Let's see 'em," I said.

Devereux was able to make an ace three of a kind, but Macintyre had a full house—kings full of sevens. The Scottish Staff Sergeant allowed himself a small grin as he pulled the pile of bullets into his helmet, stowing them in his bag.

"No beginner's luck today," Macintyre chuckled.

As we started gathering up the cards for another round, we were interrupted by the arrival of our platoon leader, Lieutenant Nelson. "Game's over, marines," Nelson said, motioning for us to pack up. "Staff Sergeant Macintyre; get your squad ready. We're rolling out in five."

"Ma'am," Macintyre sprang to his feet, offering a quick salute before getting us up and moving as well.

It turned out that 118th Division to the east had been getting pounded hard for the past three days. Once the platoon was assembled, Lieutenant Nelson told us as we hiked off towards the Battalion motor pool that General Lafayette had received reports of a massive breach in our lines. Covies had apparently smashed through the 704th Regiment's lines and were making a beeline for Cedar Rapids.

"Reports say that it's just part of a legion of Elite shock troops that managed to get through," Nelson clarified. "As far as we've heard, there hasn't been any hostile armor in that sector. General Lafayette is ordering the 9th Force Recon to contain the situation…and Colonel Ndebele has seen fit to give the duty to our company. We'll be mounting up in warthogs and moving in with some of the scorpions from Famine Contingent. Any questions?"

No one had anything to say.

"As long as the scorpions keep the hole plugged, it should be a straight-up turkey-shoot for us," Gunny Harken chimed in. "Keep to your orders and don't lose your heads. We don't need anymore goddamn heroes today."

The walk to the motor pool at Battalion HQ took fifteen minutes. Normally it would have taken longer, but we were moving at a fast clip. The sooner we mounted up, the better.

"2nd Platoon!" Captain Howell called over to us. "You're taking the LAAG warthogs; break into trios and get squared away."

"You heard the Captain; move it!" Lieutenant Nelson barked.

While the other two platoons in Alpha Company loaded themselves into the troop transport 'hogs, the marines in my platoon divided into groups of three, each group climbing into a standard warthog.

Dempsey and I stuck together, jogging over to the nearest 'hog we could find.

"Want me to drive?" Dempsey offered.

"You really want _me_ on the turret?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Good point," Dempsey immediately climbed into the rear of the jeep, grabbing hold of the M41 LAAG turret. My skills with the LAAG were…not exactly spectacular. Dempsey and I had learned that the hard way during the Harvest Campaign when we had led a warthog charge into the ruins of Utgard. After that near-disaster, I had always been in the driver's seat.

I vaulted myself over the lip of the jeep and into the driver seat, punching the ignition and putting the 'hog into gear. I tapped the gas pedal—well, I suppose it wasn't really a _gas_ pedal, as the warthog ran on a hydrogen fuel cell, but I call it the gas anyway.

"Hey, Soph!" I called over to PFC Devereux, who was wandering through the motor pool alone. She wasn't in anyone else's vehicle, I had an empty passenger seat, and she had an M90 shotgun. It was like Fate was speaking to me. "Soph, I've got an opening for you!"

Devereux looked over at my empty passenger seat and gave a shrug, jogging over and climbing in.

"Nice choice, Sarge, _very _nice choice," Dempsey chuckled from the turret.

My face flushed red. "It wasn't—it's not—she has a goddamn shotgun, Demp; get off my back."

"Shut up and drive."

Luckily the trees out in this neck of the woods weren't too densely spaced. They were wide enough apart to allow me to drive right through them with relative ease. Even better, they thinned out into a wide-open meadow, broken by lines and patches of forest.

I could see how this part of the line would be the easiest for the Covenant to break; there was very little natural cover. Fortunately for us, the axe bit both ways. This was also probably the easiest place for us to contain the breakthrough, especially with warthogs.

I kept to the middle of our formation. We advanced in a large wedge—troop 'hogs interspersed with standard ones. I wasn't at the apex of the wedge—Captain Howell was—but my warthog was a short distance to the left of it.

After five or so minutes, we ran across a group of twenty or so scorpion tanks sweeping around to the south. "_Good hunting, boys,_" the commander of the armored contingent, Lieutenant Swell, or whatever his name was, wished us over the COM.

"_Just keep the Covie armor off our asses,_" Captain Howell's response was. "_Pleasure working with you boys._"

Captain Howell's warthog turned to the left, heading up to the north. At first I was confused—I thought the Covies were straight ahead. But then the logic of the maneuver became clear; Howell wanted to sweep up and cut the Covies off before any of them got within spitting distance of Cedar Rapids. Then we could work our way down, killing and butchering and having a good time as we went. If any Covies got ahead of us, the scorpions would grind them up anyway.

"So…" I broke the silence as I turned the wheel to the left, adjusting the gear. "I've heard that you were on New Constantinople," I said to Devereux, who had been silent this whole time, all the while praying that Dempsey didn't cut into the conversation with one of his remarks.

Devereux shot me a glare. "Why do you keep talking to me?"

Uh-oh. Red alert, red alert: hot water ahead.

I shrugged. "It's unhealthy for any one member of a squad to become separated from the rest. We're supposed to be a team."

"And the fact that Super-Sergeant Manly-Badass Garris here thinks you're smokin' hot probably doesn't hurt, either," Dempsey remarked nonchalantly.

_Goddamnit, Dempsey…_

I threw the warthog into the next gear, nearly throwing Dempsey off the turret. "Okay, _fine;_ forget I said anything…_goddamnit_…" I muttered, returning my full attention to the terrain ahead of me, not watching as Devereux smiled and looked away.

I was so engrossed in thought that I barely noticed the flaring green fuel-rod projectile that sizzled right over my head. I heard it impact and explode somewhere behind the warthog, giving only a mildly-interested grunt.

There were around two or three hundred Elites as well as around twenty ghosts making a beeline for the distant trees of the Antonine Forest—the only natural defilade between our line and Cedar Rapids. Right after we had crested the last hill, they came into plain sight.

"_Hostile contacts straight ahead!_" an officer—probably Lieutenant Wilkins, the Company XO—was shouting over the COM. "_Mow 'em down!_"

"Dempsey, we need to have a talk, you and I!" I exclaimed as I floored the accelerator, sending us rocketing forward through the tall grass towards the force of Elites.

"About what?" Dempsey had to shout to be heard over the near-deafening clatter of the M41 LAAG as he opened up with it.

"About how every time I try to have a semi-serious conversation-"

"_Watch out!_" Devereux shouted suddenly, pointing straight ahead, where a lone Elite was aiming a fuel rod cannon right at us.

The Elite had been expecting me to try to evade it, which would explain its '_Wort?_' of utter surprise when I wrenched the gear and floored it, completely pulping it with the front of the warthog.

I continued talking right after the impact as if nothing had happened. "-a semi-serious conversation, you have to come in with some stupid remark," I ducked as a glowing purple needler round whizzed through the air where my head had been a second ago, "and just make me look like a complete jackass!"

"Well, that's just 'cuz you're so fun to fuck with!" Dempsey snickered. "Sure, you may almost be thirty years old, but sometimes you still act like that sixteen-year-old screw-ball I knew back in the Harvest Militia!"

Devereux gave us both an incredulous stare as we argued. I'm sure we probably looked like crazy people to her, having a conversation like this while plasma was flying by our heads. It was nothing new to us, though—one time during the Harvest Campaign, Dempsey and I had actually broken through a Covenant fortification while having a conversation about the brothels on Emerald Cove. You really couldn't get any more detached from battle than that.

I moved our warthog over to the right in order to avoid clipping the fender of the 'hog in front of us. Dempsey swung the turret over and made sure the Elite we had hit stayed dead.

"Demp! Snag that fuel-rodder at two o'clock!" I shouted, pointing at the Elite that had fired the fuel rod cannon at us when we had just gotten into the meadow. It had emptied the entire clip into our advance, but its shots had gone wide. It was just finishing reloading right now.

Dempsey brought the turret back to the front, but the fuel rod cannon-bearing Elite was cut down by the LAAG of another warthog before Dempsey could open fire. "_Damn it,_" the blond-haired marine muttered.

"You're getting slower, old friend!" I hollered back at Dempsey.

"Just shut up and drive," the corporal grunted for the second time today.

I shifted back down to a lower gear as we began to sweep downhill to the south. More warthogs had appeared from the northeast—reinforcements from the 704th Regiment, no doubt. While they combed further up the hill, searching for any Covies that may have made it further north than my unit's sweep, we continued south.

Our phalanx of warthogs pressed on into the plasmafire coming from the cohort of Elites, the sound of our gunfire dominating the atmosphere. This was one of those few times when we Humans reigned supreme; when the Elites were cut off from their armor and we ground them up with technology. Sure, pitting ground troops—even Elites—against a vehicular assault, in a _meadow_ of all places, was definitely far from honorable. But hey; who ever said Humans were honorable? If winning means we have to play dirty, then we play dirty. I could only imagine the shit that ONI's been up to these past few years.

The downhill slope gave us even more speed, but the Elites who had punched through the 704th's lines and already turned back, realizing that there was nothing they could accomplish by pressing on. If there had been a chance that they could still make us bleed by moving forward, the Elites would have done so until the last of them dropped…but all that waited for them up there were more warthogs from the 704th. So, with no other viable alternative, the Elites had turned back.

Unfortunately, the arrival of the 704th's reinforcements had completely boxed the Elites in. They were all kinds of fucked, for lack of a better description. That still didn't mean they weren't going to try to fight back, though. I winced as a warthog some distance away blew up in a blinding blue explosion as a plasma grenade stuck to its front wheel and detonated.

The low _phoom_ of a firing fuel rod cannon was also clearly audible in the din. That sucker was going to have to be taken out soon, or more of us would get turned into well-done steaks for the gore crows.

Eventually, I found myself driving right through the midst of the surviving Elites. More than once I would clip or completely wipe out any of the aliens unlucky enough to be in my way. I blinked reflexively every time Devereux fired her shotgun. I couldn't help it; the loud report of the M90 was enough to startle any man who wasn't paying attention. And I couldn't pay attention, because doing so would probably result in a crash.

At one point, an Elite managed to grab onto the side of our speeding warthog, but Devereux emptied a shell into its face, blowing the top of its head clean off.

The rest of the counterattack went by in a blur. None of us said anything—we were too focused on killing any non-human we saw while trying not to lose control of the warthog. It wasn't as easy as it may have sounded…but I was experienced behind the wheel of military vehicles. I had commandeered my fair share of them during the Harvest Campaign. I could drive almost any land vehicle…except for tanks. I tried driving an M1-Delta Dragon tank once, and…well, it hadn't been pretty. Not something I really want to repeat.

By the time it was all over, we had lost three warthogs—five men dead. We returned to our lines later on in the evening, when Alpha Tauris, the sun of this star system, was sinking down into the eastern horizon. Yes, it was setting in the east—something about the rotation or orbit of Verus III was the reverse of most other UNSC colonies, resulting in the sun rising in the west and setting in the east.

We left the warthogs at the Battalion HQ motor pool and trudged silently back to our lines. Elements of Delta Company had been manning our trenches while we were gone—we returned just as they were leaving. We exchanged semi-pleasantries with them as we climbed back into our trenches and foxholes.

Captain Howell simply told us 'Good job' before retiring. That was all we could ask for—Howell was a good officer, but he wasn't the type of person who gave long, inspirational speeches. His declarations were much shorter and straightforward. I think we, as marines, appreciated that.

Lieutenant Nelson and Gunny Harken both made their rounds, checking up on all of us before turning in themselves. It was customary routine for them—the Lieutenant keeping a watch on the morale and integrity of the platoon, the Gunnery Sergeant looking out for the morale and integrity of the entire company. It helped, I think, for the common rank and file to know that the officers gave a shit about our hides. At least, the lower-ranking officers did. Once you got up past majors and colonels, it was hard to tell.

"Hell of a day?" I yawned, crawling into the four-man foxhole occupied by Dempsey and me.

Dempsey, who was already lying propped up against the forward-facing side of the foxhole, gave a silent shrug. "We've had worse," was all he said in reply. "A lot worse. This was just like Gunny Harken said: a goddamn turkey shoot; Elites didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell against warthogs."

"You complaining?" I raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Oh, _fuck_ no," Dempsey chuckled, shaking his head. "I just feel…I feel tired, right now, you know? I mean…I just can't see the point. You can't really call this a battle—all we do is retreat and retreat…Verus III is already gone; we just have yet to leave. And it's gonna be the same story on the next colony we visit, and the next one, and the one after that…"

Thankfully, Dempsey was interrupted by a new arrival to our foxhole before he could continue. Most of the time, our mental armor was unblemished…but sometimes, every so often we would start questioning what we were doing. It all seemed so pointless…just like we were only delaying the inevitable. If I looked deep within myself, I would probably discover that I believed that the Covenant would eventually win this war, that they would eventually find Earth and burn it into a cinder.

That's why I've never looked deep into myself since Harvest, when I watched the first Covenant cruiser I ever saw turn my home city of Gladsheim into a memory.

"Don't you stay in a foxhole all by yourself?" Dempsey asked over me to the marine who had just lowered herself into our foxhole. I glanced over to my left, and was surprised to find none other than PFC Devereux sliding down onto the army blanket Dempsey had lain out on the bottom of the entrenchment.

"Felt like having company tonight," Devereux murmured. "Don't ask me why."

"Well, that's easy. It's the same with most new fish or luckies," Dempsey shrugged again, using the respective nicknames of marines fresh out of boot camp and marines who had been sole—or very close to sole—survivors of previous units before coming to this one. "They need time alone, for their own sake. Then, when they've gotten back into the old routine, they start opening up to the rest of their squad. Trust me; Garris and I have seen it over and over."

"You seem unaffected by…by _this,_" Devereux remarked.

"What do you mean by 'this'?" I queried, rolling over to my side and propping my head up with my arm.

"This whole thing," Devereux gestured all around with her hand. "The war, the fighting, the death…"

"Ah…that…" Dempsey nodded, understanding what the Frenchwoman was getting at. "Well, saying we're 'unaffected' is…well, it's pretty far from the truth. In fact, it's the polar opposite of the truth. We're just better at hiding it than most others are."

Devereux was silent for a minute or so. I couldn't tell what she was thinking; her dark brown eyes were unreadable. When she finally spoke again, though, she seemed more relaxed and more curious. "You mentioned something about the Harvest Militia?" she asked.

"Mm-hm," Dempsey nodded, his eyes twinkling at the memories. "Garris and I were part of it. 'Course, we were a decade younger and a lot stupider than we are now. Hell, Garris here was _sixteen_ when the Covies paid our home a visit."

"You guys are legendary throughout the Corps, you know," Devereux informed us.

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Say what?"

"Yeah, everyone knows about what the Harvest Militia did. You got over two hundred thousand civilians off-planet before the Covenant glassed it."

"We were lucky, that's all," I said grimly, feeling uncomfortable with our exploits being shone in such a positive light. "There wasn't even a lot of fighting. The Covies had only one ship with an already-malfunctioning plasma array that was incapable of completely glassing us…that, and we had a mass driver handy."

"Still…you accomplished the near-impossible without any backup from the UNSC whatsoever…" Devereux looked at us with a new respect. "I knew a man on New Constantinople who was part of the militia. He was in my unit—my squad leader, actually. Sergeant Carrol…"

"Carrol?" Dempsey and I both chorused in unison, our interests piqued. We had lost contact with all the other members of the Harvest Militia who had gone with us to the Corps; hearing news of them was a rare treat.

My excitement fell when I realized what Devereux's revelation entailed. Carrol had been a member of the unit of which Devereux was supposed to be the sole survivor. "He's dead, then," I declared flatly.

"He got wounded before the final Covenant offensive that wiped us out," Devereux recalled. "Maybe he was able to get medevaced out in time…I don't know," she shrugged helplessly.

"He was one helluva guy…" Dempsey murmured. "Just the type of man this War loves to kill."

The silence came back. For a while, all the three of us heard was the _reet-reet_ of the crickets chirping out their nightly tune. The stars were even faintly visible. Slowly but surely, the weather from the other day was lessening. Didn't mean we were in the clear—this _was_ storm season on Verus III, after all—but it was still a respite.

"You know…" Devereux mumbled quietly at first, before finding more confidence and continuing in a stronger undertone. "You know, if we ever have to do another vehicular op…I'd like to stick with you guys. You both were absolutely crazy out there…and for some reason, that made me feel somewhat safe. Don't ask me how."

"Well, Madame, from now on, your chariot is our chariot," Dempsey proclaimed eloquently. Had he been standing up, he probably would have given a deep bow.

He always had a flair for the melodrama, damn him…

As for me, I only managed a quiet, "Sounds…sounds like fun."

After another few minutes, Devereux began breathing heavily. She had fallen asleep. Dempsey rolled over and nudged me. "_Smooth,_" he whispered into my ear, barely restraining his laughter.

I rolled my eyes. "_Fuck you,_" I whispered back.

Dempsey held up his hands in mock-surrender. "Hey, I'm just sayin'…we could be dead tomorrow, or the next day. Hurry the hell up."

Jesus H. Christ, like I didn't have a million _other_ things to do…


	18. II Chapter 18: Return to Cedar Rapids

Chapter Eighteen: Return to Cedar Rapids

**November 17, 2536 (Military Calendar) \  
Verus III, Alpha Tauris System**

Marines have, putting it lightly, a warped sense of humor. People who don't live in the mud on a daily basis would think that we were downright screwy in the head. Maybe they were right, to a degree. The point is: can you really blame us?

When you spend day after day manning a fortified position, knowing full well that you may never get to see tomorrow, watching friends and comrades die as easily as termites during an extermination…a marine's sense of humor started to mutate and change in order to accommodate this new, incredibly hostile environment. When the shit is hitting the fan every day, the old '_What do you call two banana peels?_' or '_Knock-knock_' jokes just don't cut it anymore. And so, we descended into levels of insanity that we would never have visited had we been living normal, comfortable lives.

That being said, maybe you can now better understand why Private Esposito was doing what he was about to do.

"You really don't think I can do it, eh?" a slightly intoxicated Miguel Esposito was commenting, gesturing at the group of five flickering candles that had been arranged in front of him on the trench floor. "We had fucking refried beans in our lunch rations, today; how stupid can you _putos_ get? You think I don't have the fart to end all farts locked away inside my ass?"

Esposito had had a little too much to drink out of his own stash of contraband sipping whiskey, this afternoon, and he had gone around bragging that he would be able to snuff a candle by passing wind on it. Now, I was skeptical at first, but my skepticism had gradually morphed to pure curiosity. The Covies hadn't attacked since their failed breakthrough attempt at the 704th's lines to the east several days ago, so we had nothing to do except sit in our defenses and twiddle our thumbs.

Banks had outright called _bullshit_ on the Hispanic marine's claim. When Esposito had upped the stakes—betting a week's worth of coffee rations that he could extinguish five candles at once—Banks had taken the bet, none too worried about not coming out on top.

"A goddamn fart ain't strong enough to blow away five candles, man," Banks shrugged. "Whatever, though; it's your coffee I'm getting."

Last week, supply back on Earth or Reach had made a clerical error and ended up sending my unit a large shipment of coffee that had no doubt been bound for some General Staff set-up. Instead, it ended up in the hands of my company. Colonel Ndebele had given Alpha the coffee shipment in return for our successful pacification of the breach in the lines.

We weren't prudes, though; we shared it with the rest of the battalion…even so, the coffee had been elevated to near-holy grail status. Coffee was extremely hard to come by around these parts, especially with Covenant air forces constantly hammering our supply lines. Betting a week's worth of this drinkable gold was quite an endeavor.

"Everyone ready to see Banks lose his coffee?" Esposito hollered.

"Stop stalling and _do_ it already!" Dempsey interjected, throwing in his two cents.

Satisfied that he had everyone's attention, Esposito dropped the back of his pants, squatted over the five candles, and let loose one of the loudest, wettest articles of flatulence I had heard—or smelled—for a long time. Everyone who was watching automatically started pinching their noses before they could even think about how foul the smell would be. The candle flames all flickered dangerously, and four of them actually _did_ go out. One of them, sadly, remained stubbornly lit, uncowed by the 'fart to end all farts'.

The look on Esposito's face was so crestfallen that it was almost comical. The Hispanic marine pulled the back of his pants back up, stood up, and gave a hapless shrug. _Ah well,_ he said without speaking.

The group of us dispersed, stepping over Staff Sergeant Macintyre, who was snoring at the bottom of the trench further on down. Dempsey and I climbed up and headed over towards our foxhole.

A beam rifle shot—probably from a jackal sniper—suddenly drilled through the tree to my immediate left. Dempsey and I both glanced at it, shrugged, and kept walking. Sure, if it had hit us that would have been extremely bad news. But it hadn't hit us, so it wasn't worth worrying about.

Devereux raised a curious eyebrow at us as we climbed back into the foxhole, sliding down to the bottom of the shallow depression in the earth. "Esposito put the kibosh on those candles or not?" she asked, her moderate French accent thickening as she yawned.

"He got most," I chuckled. "But 'most' didn't win him a week of Banks's coffee. Too bad, really; I was kind of rooting for him in the end… I don't like it when people I root for lose…"

"You must _hate_ this war, then," Dempsey chuckled. He hesitated as another thought presented itself to him, and he cocked a curious eyebrow. "Unless you haven't been rooting for the good ole' UNSC?"

That got a cynical snort from me. "Who else is there to root for? The Covenant isn't very fan-friendly, and the Insurrectionists…well, they kinda _don't matter_ anymore. Eridanus II is nothing but a memory, now."

Having no argument for that, Dempsey fell silent. We didn't argue for any particular reason…it was just another one of our many ways to pass the time. Things get crazy out here, sometimes. Several times already I had seen men get into angry fistfights over these mock-arguments. Then, in the middle of the fight, they would forget what they had been fighting about and just burst out laughing.

Yeah, at first glance you would probably think that every one of us could spend our off-hours in a psycho ward. Hell, you'd still probably think the same thing at fifth or sixth glance…but fight as a part of our unit for a good, solid month, and you would have cuckoo birds coming out of your ears, too. The way we acted out here; that wasn't _really_ crazy, though. I've seen _real_ crazy—marines blowing their brains out with their rifles, men and women who would suddenly attack their comrades, soldiers who would forget who they were; the list went on. We were nowhere near real crazy. We were fake crazy.

I was shaken back out of my thoughts by the distant thunder of another plasma bombardment. This one was closer than most of the others. That was when our COMs crackled and Lieutenant Nelson's voice issued through. "_2nd__Platoon, be advised that Division is receiving reports of some first-rate shit heading right for us. Get ready for some heavy fire. Nelson out._"

No sooner had my platoon leader spoken when the thunder of plasma bombardment suddenly exploded all around us. Large bolts of the superheated plasma energy were slamming all over our lines—grass and vegetation was instantly immolated, trees blew up into millions of deadly wooden splinters, and dirt simply melted into a glassy substance. When those bolts hit marines, the men or women unlucky enough to be under it simply vanished. Sometimes we would be able to find carbonized skeletons, but most of the time the body just atomized.

Cries for medics began to rise up along our lines as the bombardment continued. These were the marines who had been hurt by the outspray of impacted plasma, or by the resulting debris. Marines who were directly hit by the plasma bolts quickly came down with a bad case of death; you wouldn't hear _them_ calling for a corpsman.

Ever the conquering hero, I swore and threw myself down into the foxhole, hunkering down as low as I could along with Dempsey and Devereux. This bombardment was more intense than any of the previous ones we had endured on these lines. The Covenant must have been moving more of their armor to our sector. Lucky us, eh?

The all-too-familiar high-pitched whine of banshee engines made itself known to us after another minute. From my limited vantage point, I could see five squadrons of the Covenant fliers zoom past overhead. I knew that they would be back—this was their reconnaissance run.

Nelson was just in the process of ordering our heavy weapons squad to get ready when yet another plasma blast resounded nearby. The Lieutenant's COM transmission instantly died. Dempsey and I exchanged a harried glance. We both knew what that meant; COM channels didn't just die of their own volition.

The squad leaders tried to contact the El-Tee on her channel once more, but there was no response. She was gone.

The ground shook as one of the Covenant flier squadrons banked around and grilled us over. They peppered our trenches with their forward-mounted plasma cannons, and then dropped pulsing green fuel rod bombs on our asses. The roar of this onslaught was unbelievable.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lieutenant McCandlish—the shavetail replacement officer in charge of the heavy weapons squad—rise up from his foxhole and fire off a SPNKr missile at one of the fliers. The rocket left a thin white wake as it snapped through the air and tore into the Covenant flier.

The banshee exploded in a haze of blue and orange flames. Its compatriots swerved to avoid crashing into it.

I gace McCandlish a mental nod of approval. Maybe he was a shavetail, but he had guts.

"_Oh _fuck;_what the hell are those things?_" someone shouted over the COM.

"_Alpha Company, this is sniper team one,_" the COM crackled again, this time with the voice of one of the 9th Force Recon's battalion snipers. "_You have unidentified contacts heading right for you_. _I'd batten down the hatches, if I were you; these are _big _sons of bitches!_"

"_Acknowledged,_" Captain Howell responded. The Company Commander tried to learn more about these mysterious hostiles, but he didn't get the chance. By the time the snipers started explaining, they had arrived.

I had fought them before on Harvest, especially in the ruins of Utgard and when we were crossing the Mimir River. Apparently, word didn't go around as quickly as I thought they would, else those snipers would have recognized them. They were massive, hulking beasts, lumbering around in armor plating that had to be even thicker than _me_. They were moving at a steady run, which—for creatures of their size—was pretty fucking fast.

I was the first marine to alert everyone else who wasn't paying attention to their presence, shouting at the top of my lungs, "_HUNTERS!_"

There were around twenty of the huge motherfuckers—they had just burst out of the opposing treeline and were charging right for us. Dozens of rifles opened fire, along with a handful of heavy fifties. Sparks played off of the charging Hunters' armor as our barrage of lead clanked harmlessly off of it. Our small-arms fire did absolutely nothing against these behemoths.

The heavy fifty-caliber guns were able to score a little more damage than we were, as evidenced by the flying pieces of the orange eel-like worms that made up the Covenant monsters. Some of the heavy rounds were getting through.

Three of the Hunters leveled their mounted fuel rod cannons and opened fire. A trio of blinding green blasts crackled through the air. I didn't see where they exploded, but one of the heavy fifties fell silent. Right after this, the rest of the heavy fifties took the hint and fell silent as well, unwilling to risk meeting the same fate as that first one.

I couldn't really blame the fifties, but their withdrawal still put us in a very bad spot. Another rocket streaked out from somewhere down the line, slamming into one of the charging pairs of Hunters. The mammoth creature roared once right as the rocket impacted its armor, then disintegrated into a shower of gore. A Hunter was too large for a rocket to completely atomize it, so we got to see the fireworks of body parts every time one got hit.

Still…the death of that one Hunter only pissed off its bond partner. The other Hunter went berserk, running in circles for a moment while swinging its armored limbs wildly before it locked onto the ones who had killed its brother. Us.

The phalanx of Hunters ran even faster, rapidly closing the distance between them and our lines.

I had no idea what to do. Once those Hunters hit us, we were toast. Sure, we might be able to bring them down with grenades, but that would happen only after they had wiped out at least three quarters of us.

After ten seconds or so, we spotted more movement. Covenant ground troops were advancing behind the Hunters. Another legion of Elites—maybe the one we had beated back earlier in the week—was moving forwards, reinforced by a contingent of wraith tanks. Rank after rank of the blue, red, and white-armored aliens drew their energy swords and gave a collective roar loud enough to be heard over the din of the Hunters. The situation had just gone from shitty to impossible.

That was when 2nd Lieutenant McCandlish got onto the platoon-wide COM. "_2__nd __Platoon, fall back! I repeat; _fall back! _These wankers're gonna roast us _all _if we stay here!_"

At that moment, I really didn't care what the consequences of falling back were, and neither—I think—did McCandlish, judging by his transmission. All I was thinking about was how if I stayed in this foxhole for another minute, those Hunters would turn me into charcoal. That was _not_ in my plans for the future.

"_2__nd __and 3__rd __Squads, go!_" McCandlish ordered. "_4__th __Squad will cover your asses, and 1__st __Squad will cover _our _asses!_"

"You heard the Lieutenant, marines!" Macintyre roared. "Get up and move! Cover the heavies!"

'Heavies' was the name we used for the members of 4th Squad, our heavy weapons squad. Usually they fought spread out with all the rest of us, providing support with their rocket launchers and heavy MGs. Now, those same men scrambled to pack up their heavy weapons, running away into the woods after their comrades.

I was faintly aware of Captain Howell issuing a company-wide retreat order, but I didn't pay too much attention. My ass was on the line, here.

I sprinted away for all I was worth, but I didn't keep at my top speed. I slowed down so that I wouldn't leave my squadmates in the dust. That wouldn't have looked good for me—a sergeant reaching safety before everyone else.

I felt the heat and force of another fuel rod impact the ground behind me, propelling me forward. I hope there hadn't been anyone back there.

I really have to give props to Lieutenant McCandlish. Simply saying that he had 'guts' didn't do him justice. I watched, impressed, as he calmly reloaded his SPNKr and fired both tubes towards the oncoming Hunters. Another Hunter exploded to pieces. Two more of the creatures aimed and fired their cannons, but both shots missed. The Lieutenant ignored both shots—both of which sizzled right past him—and grabbed another pair of rockets from one of his fleeing men.

Those two fuel rod shots both hit nearby trees, which instantly turned into tornados of wood splinters. Brewster had been standing right next to one of the trees. His torso landed not far to my right. I don't know where the other half of him went.

Macintyre had been a few meters away from Brewster. He didn't take any of the blast, but he did take a good amount of the debris. The burly Scotsman went down, howling some of the most obscene profanity I had ever heard. The only man I knew of who could rival an outburst like that was Nolan Byrne, the ill-tempered Irish Staff Sergeant-he was a Master Sergeant, now, last I heard-who had trained me in the Harvest Militia.

Macintyre's leg had been cut up pretty bad. His battle armor had protected his abdomen and other vital areas, but he wouldn't be able to walk on that leg. In short, unless he got help, he was screwed.

Devereux had been close to the second tree, the one Brewster hadn't been near, and she wasn't watching her back like she was supposed to. I watched that pair of crackling fuel rods sear through the air, almost in slow motion. I knew they were going to hit that tree that she was next to, so I started sprinting my ass off again. I had always been a fast runner—living on the streets of Gladsheim had been a good cardiovascular exercise in general—so I was barely able to reach Devereux before that fuel rod.

The tree exploded just as I reached Devereux. I tackled her from behind, hurling ourselves away from the blast and into a tall group of thick bushes. I let out an involuntary _oof!_ as we hit the dirt. The tree exploded behind us, but the bushes managed to, for the most part, shield us from the flying splinters.

I picked up my head and found that I was practically on top of Devereux. My face flushed red and I threw myself off, swearing under my breath. "Sorry," I mumbled in apology.

"Don't mention it," Devereux rasped in reply, delicately extracting herself from the bush and picking the wood splinters out of her fatigues. She glanced at me and offered a quick grin. "I'd have probably gotten fried. Thanks…"

Before the awkward moment could continue any longer, I spotted—well, more _heard_ than spotted—Macintyre as he shot off on his profane rant. My squad leader was lying by the other exploded tree, next to the top half of Brewster's corpse.

I sprinted over to my squad leader. The Scotsman had managed to calm down enough to fumble through his belt and take out his morphine syrette. His hands were shaking too badly for him to stick himself, though, so I took the shot and slid it into his leg myself. After I emptied the morphine syrette's contents into the Sarge, Dempsey and I threw his arms over our shoulders and hoisted him up, resuming our unorganized retreat.

"They got me, can you feckin' believe that?" Macintyre was muttering as we pulled him along, his speech becoming the slightest bit slurred as the morphine blissfully took effect. "They got me, and they didn't even _get_ me… They had to have a bloody _tree_ do all the work for them, the lazy cunts-"

"Oh, cheer up, Sarge," I tried to say to him. "You get to get _out_ of this shithole for a couple of months."

"Yeah, lying on a goddamned bed for two weeks, and then learning how to walk again," Macintyre growled. He began muttering under his breath again, but I wasn't listening anymore. The message was clear. _Don't fuck with me, right now_.

Devereux covered us as we ran, opening fire at the still-oncoming Hunters. McCandlish must have run out of rockets, because I saw him hightailing it out of there out of the corner of my eye, a now-empty SPNKr rocket launcher slung across his back. Behind him he left the smoldering corpses of five Hunters. The remaining ones seemed to be deliberately aiming their fuel rod cannons at the shavetail lieutenant, but McCandlish was doing a good job at evading them so far.

It turned out that similar assaults had been made on our line to the immediate north and south. The Covenant seemed to have deliberately targeted my battalion, the 9th Force Recon. In a twisted way, I was flattered. They considered us formidable enough threats that they had to throw probably their entire complement of Hunters straight at us to get us to budge.

All the same, though…we could have gone without the recognition. Colonel Ndebele had actually ordered a full retreat _before_ McCandlish had ordered the same thing for my platoon; it had taken a small amount of time for the command to trickle down to us through Captain Howell. We probably would have known sooner if we still had a platoon leader. With Nelson gone…

We found the rest of our Division—the 51st Marine Infantry—manning the hastily-erected defenses in the outskirts of Cedar Rapids. To our relief, they were reinforced by elements of the 121st Armored, the outfit that Lieutenant Swell's Famine Contingent was a part of. Scorpion main battle tanks and dragon heavy battle tanks rested behind the battlements and next to houses.

A few marines who were mounted up on warthogs accelerated away from the defensive line and plowed forward into the woods of the Antonine Forest to give us a hand. The tanks couldn't open fire until all of us were safely behind the new line, so these warthogs had to help. They gave the Hunters something to shoot at while they sped around, distracting the pursuing Covenant forces while we got away.

The retreat to Cedar Rapids took fifteen minutes. I don't know how many men and women we lost along the way, but I do know that all of my squad made it out…with the exception of Brewster, of course. I never paid any attention to casualty reports; I paid attention to the holes in the company that I would notice later on, once we had all settled down. Lieutenant Nelson would be one such hole. Macintyre—who, although he had not been killed, was no longer in any state to fight with us—would be another. Brewster would be a third.

I shouted for a corpsman as we made it to the first line of trenches and defenses. Stretcher teams were on-site and waiting to receive us. Someone on this end of the retreat had his head screwed on right, at least. With the medics right here, the moving of our wounded to the field hospitals would be much faster.

Two corpsmen hurried over to us and took Macintyre off our hands. "We'll get him to a surgeon," one of the medics promised.

"Behave yourselves, now," Macintyre hollered back to us as the corpsmen carried him away. "Or I swear to Jesus H. Jehoshaphat and all o' his inbred children that I'll skin the lot o' ye alive!"

"Good luck to you, too, Sarge!" Dempsey waved Macintyre goodbye while simultaneously taking in that interesting threat. "Jesus H. Jehoshaphat?" my friend murmured to Devereux and me, one of his eyebrows sliding up towards his hairline. "I've never heard that one out of him before."

"Having half a tree in your leg makes a man's profanity a little more…over-the-top, I would imagine," I remarked. My squadmates both gave grunts of agreement. Just as we accepted this new notion that peoples' swearing went to a whole new level with physical pain thrown into the mix, our ears throbbed as the tanks manning the perimeter line around Cedar Rapids all opened fire.

The surviving Hunter pairs were torn to shreds by the tanks' HE barrage. When our armor shifted its attention to the scores of Elites advancing behind the now-deceased Hunters, firing shell after shell of canister-shot, the legion of Covenant ground troops broke ranks and turned back. They had gained a good amount of ground, today. They had pushed us all the way back to Cedar Rapids, and it was only a matter of time before they drove us from the town. Today was yet the latest in a long string of victories for the aliens.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The civilians of Cedar Rapids had been evacuated to Wiltshire long ago, so the block of townhouses in the northwestern strip of the town's urban area in which the 9th Force Recon had made its abode was uninhabited. These homes that we were now temporarily living in would never be used again after we bugged out. Once we left, they would burn.

There were several dozen townhouses, easily enough to fit the entire battalion, so Colonel Ndebele set it up so that each portion of every townhouse would go to a different squad. My squad was bivouacked in one such townhouse segment which comprised of three stories—the ground level of the den, kitchen, and dining space, the second floor of the laundry room and master bedroom, and the third floor of all the other bedrooms.

Myself and the other twelve surviving members of my squad quickly grabbed what rooms we could. I was the only Sergeant in the squad, so I pulled rank to snag the master bedroom. It was big enough for three, so Dempsey and Esposito both were allowed to sleep on the spare mattresses, which were still a good deal better than the smaller beds upstairs. Devereux got a room with Lance Corporal Sheila Pope, the only other female marine in the squad. Everyone else was left to fight over the beds in the remaining rooms.

I ended up using the townhouse's oven to boil up some hot water to make coffee. I nearly trembled in anticipation as I smelled the brew after I mixed in the coffee powder. When I took a sip, I nearly fainted. Sure, it wasn't even all that good, but I hadn't had coffee in so long that it tasted like liquid heaven. Cigarettes were alright, but they were common. You could smoke them anytime and find them nearly as often. Coffee…with coffee, the story was very different.

Just as I finished pouring the brew into one of my flasks, the front door to the townhouse was pushed open and someone strode inside. I didn't even need to look up; I recognized Gunnery Sergeant Harken's heavy footfalls anywhere. "What can I do for ya, Gunny?" I asked without looking up.

"Sergeant Garris, grab Corporal Dempsey and report immediately to Battalion HQ," Gunny Harken said. "Don't ask why; I'm just the messenger."

"Thanks, Gunny," I nodded, snapping the older man a quick salute.

Harken returned the salute and turned to leave, stepping back out through the door.

I looked up at the ceiling and shouted for Dempsey to come down. When there was no response, I shouted for him again, this time including the bit where we were supposed to report to Battalion Headquarters. That got him down here. When Battalion got involved, making them wait was never a good plan.

The two of us headed outside into the warm pre-autumn weather and headed all the way down to the other end of the development of townhouses, where our Battalion HQ was stationed. The HQ was the fire station the next block over; Colonel Ndebele's HQ jockeys had set up shop in the large garage where the fire engines were normally kept.

The place was exactly the same as the tent they had used back when we had still been south of the Antonine Forest; choc full of frenzied, bustling couriers, COM operators jabbering into their mics; the whole shebang. I have no idea how they kept on managing to pack up and move with our retreats so fast, but somehow they did.

When we identified ourselves, we were waved into a backroom where we were semi-surprised to find Captain Howell and the Colonel himself waiting for us.

"Gentlemen, I have little free time, so I will be brief," Colonel Ndebele said to us. He had a deep, resonant voice with a noticeable South African accent. All the more reason to believe the rumors of his being a Zulu. "From what your CO here tells me, your platoon suffered the worst out of Alpha Company. If I am correct, you men lost both your platoon leader _and_ your squad leader?"

"That's correct, sir," I nodded. "Lieutenant Nelson was killed in the plasma barrage, Staff Sergeant Macintyre got a hometowner in the leg during the retreat."

Colonel Ndebele nodded, as if I had just confirmed what he already knew. "So I heard. Usually it takes a little while to formally sort these things out, but I intend to rectify this situation here and now. You both served on Harvest, correct?"

"We served in the militia before the actual campaign, too," Dempsey replied. "We were there for the first contact."

"Again, I thought as much. You boys have been fighting in the Corps for a long time. Garris, you have been a sergeant for…six years, now," the Colonel stated, turning his attention to me. "You seem solid under battlefield conditions. You don't lose your head out there, I've never seen or heard any complaints about you, and—judging from the fact that you've survived ever since the breakout of the War on Harvest—you've got an insane amount of luck. Tell me; how would you feel about leading your squad?"

The question caught me so off-guard, I nearly did a double-take. The Colonel was offering me Staff Sergeant Macintyre's old job, something I had never dreamed I would ever lay a finger on. Still, I was addressing my Battalion Commander, so I kept my emotional outburst on the inside.

"Sir… I-" I swallowed, regaining my voice. "I would like that very much."

Colonel Ndebele nodded, satisfied. "It's settled, then," he declared. "Captain Howell and I are bumping you up to Staff Sergeant and giving you command of your squad. Corporal Dempsey, we're going to give you your third stripe—Lord knows you've earned it by now."

Dempsey and I both straightened up considerably, our hands snapping to our foreheads in a respectful salute. "Sirs," we said in unison, waiting for permission to be dismissed.

Before Colonel Ndebele could give it, however, Captain Howell quickly spoke up. "There is one more matter I would like to address, while we are all still here," my company commander reminded the Colonel. He turned to Dempsey and me, and said, "I was considering bumping Ian McCandlish up to 1st Lieutenant and giving him command of 2nd Platoon, in lieu of Lieutenant Nelson's death. Before I do this, I would like your opinions on him, as two of my most experienced NCOs."

"Well, he's…" I hesitated; trying to recall the times I had conversed with McCandlish. I had rarely ever spoken to the man…but then I realized that I never needed to _speak_ to him to judge his character. Or at least, his character during battle. His actions spoke louder. My mind flashed back to the Antonine Forest edge, where Echo Line had been established. I remembered McCandlish calmly directing salvo after salvo of rockets and heavy fifties at the charging Hunters. When everyone else had been breaking cover and retreating, I remembered how he had remained at the rear of the withdrawal practically by himself, taking down at least five of the Hunters with his rockets. For a shavetail 2nd Lieutenant, this was highly unusual. That was just the highlight-McCandlish had been running a tight shift on the heavy weapons squad for a while now. He definitely knew how to lead.

I gave a wry half-grin and looked back up at the Captain. "I think he'll do just fine, sir."

"Good," Captain Howell nodded. "I know he's still a little green, but I believe he's shown a lot of potential in the field. Help break him in, Staff Sergeant."

"Sir," I nodded, taking this news in stride. Sure, McCandlish _did_ show potential… I only hoped that potential turned into competence before too many of us died.

"Oh, and tomorrow we're going to be occupying the residential districts just to the northwest of our current position," Captain Howell started to say.

"Sir, with all due respect, why aren't we stationed at the front line in the south?" Dempsey challenged the company commander. "Force Recon should be there, not-"

Colonel Ndebele filled the room with his booming laughter, displaying snow-white teeth. "The northwestern residential district _is_ on the front line, Sergeant," the Battalion Commander chuckled, approving of Dempsey's bold declaration. "We've been surrounded."


	19. II Chapter 19: WIA

Chapter Nineteen: WIA

**November 20, 2536 (Military Calendar) \  
Verus III, Alpha Tauris System**

I held my finger to my lips, gesturing for complete silence. Stealthily, I crept up to the very edge of the room, where the floor had been blown away by plasma. Dempsey, Esposito, and Olsen slid up behind me. The rest of my squad remained silent, sitting back against the far wall of the bedroom that we were in.

Once upon a time, this had been a little girl's bedroom, judging by the remains of a small bed, stuffed animals laying about the floor, and pink wallpaper and sheets. I knew that the former occupant was either dead or in Wiltshire getting evacuated off-planet. So it goes.

Cedar Rapids had been under intense plasma bombardment for the past couple days. The Covenant had surrounded the town three days ago in a blitzkrieg attack against my unit's lines. They sliced right through our lines, forced elements of my division back into Cedar Rapids, and cut us off completely from the rest of the 16th Expeditionary Force. It was just my battalion, the 327th Regiment, and the 506th Regiment. The rest of the division, as well as all the other divisions of the 16th MEF, was currently struggling to fall back to a point further north so they could refuse the horrible gap in the line left by us.

In short, unless General Strauss—the commander of the 16th MEF—could mount some sort of miracle counterattack to get us out of here…we were a hundred kinds of fucked. Regardless, I was a Force Recon marine, as were my squadmates. If the Covies wanted to have us, we were gonna give 'em one hell of a bloody nose trying.

And so, I found myself in the abandoned bedroom of some anonymous little girl. Well, what remained of it. Half the roof and walls were gone, blown away by the plasma bombardment. Wood splinters and crossbeams hung like broken toothpicks at the fringes of the massive hole in the house. Practically half of the entire dwelling was completely gone; the room we were in had been in the center of the townhouse's western wall. The plasma bolt that had destroyed half the house had almost neatly bisected the bedroom. Luckily, the side with the door had not been destroyed, so my squad didn't have to break through the wall to gain entry.

I sat for a moment at the very edge of where the bedroom came to an abrupt end. I shivered briefly as the cold breeze breathed into the room, buffeting the pink curtains. The town of Cedar Rapids sat under a thin film of snow. It was still autumn, technically, but snowfall was common on Verus III this far north. It was still snowing lightly outside, almost like a peaceful Christmas morning.

The atmosphere would have been tranquil—a beautiful snowscape in an old-style town…snowflakes dancing down from the sky…the whole thing would have been so perfect were it not for the roiling bolts of plasma raining down on the whole place, or the hundreds of oily columns of smoke gushing into the air from the hundreds of fires that were burning all across town, or the thousands of desperate marines running through the streets, trading fire with advancing Covenant ground troops. The bombardment had petered out as of late, but it had not completely gone, yet. Occasional plasma bolts could still be heard hitting other parts of the town.

Sitting there at the edge of the hole blasted into the townhouse, I tore my gaze from the momentarily-mesmerizing snowscape. The rumbling sound of an advancing Covenant convoy jerked my mind back to the present. I couldn't see around the edge of the ruined wall, and I did not dare stick my head around. Instead, I pulled out a small length of fiber optic cable from my helmet. There was a tiny micro-camera on the end of the wire. I then pulled down the small, green HUD panel over my left eye.

I rarely used the HUD eyepiece—my helmet had one because I was a squad leader—but it did come in handy on occasions like these. I uplinked the micro camera's feed into my eyepiece so that I could see whatever it was pointing at.

I then deftly slipped the wire around the edge of the ruined wall, turning it so that I could get a good view of the street running through the center of the development of townhouses. Sure enough, a contingent of Covie armor was moving down towards us. Three wraiths, around ten ghosts, a shadow troop carrier, and fifty or so Elite shock troops.

Gunfire erupted from the street below. That was Charlie Company; one of their platoons had been stationed on the road to distract the Covies with blindfire. The sudden attack would give the Covies something to shoot at, taking their attention away from the townhouses on either side of them.

I pulled my cable back and pushed it back into my helmet, sliding my green HUD eyepiece up into its groove as well.

Dempsey, Esposito, and Olsen all crept up next to me, crouching almost at the edge of the hole, but angling so that they would not be able to be seen by the advancing Covies.

Plasmafire streaked down the road as the Elites and Covie vehicles traded fire with Charlie Company. A pair of ghosts sped on past our townhouse, but I didn't open fire. Charlie Company could handle them.

As ordered, Charlie Company quickly disengaged and fell back, hurrying down to the prepared defenses at the end of the street. The Covenant, arrogant as always, perceived this as a mere display of cowardice from a weak opponent. They pressed forward, determined to crush Charlie Company, not bothering to check their flanks.

I caught the eye of Staff Sergeant Aimes, one of the other squad leaders in 2nd Platoon. He was holed up in the house across from mine. He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, the universal _okay_ sign. I glanced at the rest of my squad briefly before giving him the same reply.

I turned back to the rest of my squad and motioned Devereux and Clayton forward to join my group. I then ordered Banks—who had been promoted to Corporal—to lead the others to the lower level, where we had one of the heavy fifties set up.

I craned my neck and exchanged discreet nods with Staff Sergeant Tirimev, whose squad was in the townhouse down the street. Lieutenant McCandlish was with that squad. The El-Tee gave me a slight nod as well, holding up one of his hands with his palm facing me, and, with his other hand, holding up his index, middle, and pinky fingers. _Wait seven_.

After a second, he put his pinky finger down and held up his ring finger so that he was holding up his middle three fingers. _Six_. After that, he held up all five fingers. _Five_…

I made eye contact with my squadmates next to me. I made the signal for 'grenade'—pulling apart my fists and chopping my right hand forward. All of us fumbled with our chest armor, plucking frag grenades off of their clips.

The Covies passed by our townhouse, prompting all of us to duck down low so we weren't spotted. The signal to open fire didn't come until a few seconds later, when our adrenaline was pumping high and our tension was about to break.

McCandlish must have reached the end of his silent countdown, because at that moment, a rocket flew down from one of the windows and slammed into the weaker rear armor of the leading wraith. The Covenant tank exploded, sending bits of shrapnel and gouts of flame flying into anything unlucky enough to be standing near it. Several Elites were killed in the explosion, several more wounded, and a good handful had their shields drained.

"_Now!_" I barked. As one, the six of us manning the top floor position all pulled the pins and threw our grenades into the street. Another round of explosions only added to the chaos on the ground. We even managed to take out one of the ghosts with that round of frags.

"Open fire!" Dempsey shouted down to our squadmates below.

I could hear Staff Sergeant Aimes yelling for his squad to open up, too. Within milliseconds, the Elites were caught in a withering crossfire between my squad and Aimes's. I shouldered my BR55 and targeted the Elites whose shields had been drained, either by the rocket blast or our grenades. A single three-round burst was enough to send an unshielded Elite into the afterlife.

Our heavy fifty clattered to life from one of the second-story windows below us. The energy shields of the Elites shimmered and sparkled as the fifty-caliber slugs slammed into them, trying to batter them down.

Another rocket sped from one of Aimes's windows, hitting a second wraith. The Covie tank brewed up in an oily explosion. The last wraith stopped firing at the retreating Charlie Company marines, turning instead towards Lieutenant McCandlish's building.

I was able to take out the Elite manning the plasma turret, but the tank was unharmed. The BR55's semi-armor piercing rounds weren't exactly cut out for taking down tanks.

The wraith starting sinking plasma bolts into the townhouse, but the marines firing out the windows had gotten the hell out of there the moment they saw the wraith turning. That townhouse folded under the barrage of plasma from the wraith's main mortar weapon. I hoped everyone managed to get out in time, but I couldn't afford to worry about it now.

"_Get a rocket on that motherfucker, _NOW!" Staff Sergeant Aimes was howling over the COM.

Our heavy fifty was still blazing away at the wraith. Sparks danced off the front of the tank as the rounds clanked off the armor. The marine with the rocket launcher must have been having problems of his own, because there was still no rocket to take out the wraith, even as it turned towards my townhouse.

That did it for me. "Out!" I screamed. "Everybody out!"

Dempsey pulled Esposito up to his feet when the Hispanic marine failed to acknowledge. Everyone else dove out of the bedroom through the door. I was the last one through, and not a moment too soon. The roar of plasma filled the air behind me as the crackling blue energy obliterated the pink bedroom, ripping down even more of the house.

"Anyone down?" I yelled into my helmet mic.

"_Negative,_" Banks responded. "_Kwon got a little singed, but the rest of us are fine!_"

"El-Tee, what the hell are we gonna do about that wraith?" I asked next, speaking directly to our platoon leader. "It's slaughtering us!"

"_Our bloody SPNKr jammed!_" McCandlish replied, his accent thickening as he shouted over the clearly audible swearing of other marines in the background. "_All we got are a few LOTUS mines!_"

My mind was racing at a thousand miles an hour, trying to think of a way to take that tank down before it completely smashed through our position. The house shook as another plasma bolt slammed into it, sending pieces of the roof crashing to the floor.

"Soph, you still have your M90?" I called over to Devereux as we clambered down the stairs.

The Frenchwoman didn't answer; she just held up her shotgun, nodding in reply.

"McCandlish," I said into my helmet mic, reestablishing the channel between myself and my platoon leader. "Send one of those mines over this way!"

"_Come again?_" the El-Tee didn't follow.

"Bring one of the LOTUS mines over to my position. Quickly, while the tank is still focused on this townhouse! You get me a mine, and I'll take that wraith down. All I need from you is covering fire."

There was a brief pause on the other end as Lieutenant McCandlish no doubt made up his mind on whether or not he should let me go ahead with whatever it was I was planning. If that was what he was thinking about, then he made the right choice. "_Alright, Staff Sergeant. Get it done._"

I left Dempsey in charge of the squad and kicked open the backdoor of the townhouse, stumbling outside. On my orders, Devereux and Esposito followed me. I heard one of the heavy plasma shells from the bombardment explode somewhere nearby. I automatically ducked—it was habit—and crouch-ran around the corner of the house and into the short space in between my townhouse and McCandlish's.

Right on time, Rainsford, one of the marines from Tirimev's squad, hurried over into the side yard, lugging one of the LOTUS anti-tank mines McCandlish had been talking about. "With the El-Tee's compliments," the marine set the mine down, snapped me a crisp salute, and ran back out of sight to rejoin his squad.

"Esposito, you're our fastest runner," I said to the Hispanic marine. "You get the mine; stay on my tail." I was right; he _was_ our fastest runner—he was faster than _me,_ which was saying something. Even though he was from Madrigal, he had already gotten his fair share of Mexican jokes because of his speed.

Even now, Dempsey came over the COM and told Esposito to pretend that there was a big fence between him and the wraith.

"Fuck you," was all Esposito grunted in response.

I moved up to the very edge of McCandlish's townhouse, motioning for Devereux and Esposito to join me. I listened to the low, quiet hum of the wraith's engines, as well as the constant _shoop_ of its plasma mortar firing its payload at my comrades.

After a second, the wraith tank hovered past my position, firing its mortar into the house where Staff Sergeant Aimes's squad had been holed up in. The stars were lining up for us; only six Elites were moving with the tank—the rest had taken cover further back, were charging Charlie Company up the street, or were dead—and the wraith had no gunner to man its point defense turret; I had personally taken that gunner out a minute ago.

"Devereux, on me," I ordered. "_Move!_"

Devereux and I broke cover, sprinting towards the wraith for all we were worth. Esposito waited a few seconds, then shot out after us, lugging the LOTUS mine with both hands and swearing under his breath about its weight.

Plasmafire filled the air around me as the nearby Elites noticed us for the first time. What saved us was the pure shock factor—the last thing those Elites had been expecting was for three crazy-as-shit marines to run right _towards_ them.

I tossed another frag towards the nearest pair of Elites, scattering them, giving us a brief reprieve. Harsh, staccato reports of BR55s rang out as some of my platoon's other good shots, following McCandlish's orders, started to give me some covering fire.

This didn't kill the Elites, but it _did_ keep them from focusing all their attention on us. I pumped a few bursts into the nearest split-chin alien, giving a satisfied grunt as its shields flickered and failed, allowing one of the other marines to take it down with a clean headshot. The Elite dropped without a sound, its indigo blood spraying through the air from the exit wound in the back of its head.

Just as the Elite next to it—one of the ones who had dove away from my grenade—turned to open fire at me, Devereux sunk an eight-gauge shell into its exposed left side. The shields were instantly knocked out, leaving the alien vulnerable to any further weaponsfire. Devereux racked the M90's loading mechanism and brought the Elite's life to a premature end with a second, better-aimed shell.

I reached the wraith tank, which had slowed down and was trying to turn around so that we were in the sights of its mortar weapon. I knew that this wraith driver wasn't as smart as many of the others I had encountered—a smart driver would have boosted away the moment a hostile got into its blind zone to its rear…but this driver wasn't smart. I had selected Esposito to carry the mine because he would have been able to keep on running fast enough to keep up with the tank, had it tried to boost away...although that didn't look like it was going to be the case, now. Ah well, it still paid to be careful.

"Soph!" I called over to Devereux. "Get a hole in this son of a bitch!"

Devereux brought her shotgun about and fired it into the wraith at point-blank. She emptied the rest of the shells into the wraith, one after another. When she was finished, a good-sized rend in the armor had been torn open. This had happened only because the rear armor of a wraith was weaker than the rest.

I nearly yelped in surprise as a neat line of glowing purple needler rounds thucked into the armor of the wraith right next to my head. Some of the Elites who had taken cover further back were beginning to come out of the woodwork, now. That was bad news for us; McCandlish would have to keep them contained for another minute.

Esposito arrived a second later, red-faced and panting from the exertion of dodging thick plasmafire while carrying a heavy anti-tank mine. He eyed the tear in the wraith's outer armor. "That didn't go through all the way!" the Hispanic marine exclaimed. "How're we s'posed to blow-"

"We don't need a hole in the thing; all we need is a good enough tear in the armor!" I shouted over Esposito, not having time for any independent thought on his part. "Just shove it in there, and make sure it doesn't blow up in your face!"

"That's what she said…"

"_What?_"

"Nothing, nothing!" Esposito lifted the LOTUS anti-tank mine and heaved it forward, jamming it sideways into the crack in the wraith's rear armor. The whole time we were jogging to keep up with the back of the wraith—the driver was still trying to turn the tank so that we were in its sights.

"Is it gonna stay?" I yelled to be heard over the din. This was the crux of the plan—we couldn't just throw the mine in front of the wraith; either it would fire its thrusters and pulp us, or it would just move around. We also had no adhesive, no way of making the mine stick to the wraith…so that was why I needed Devereux. Her M90 was the only thing on hand with enough kick to break through the outer layer of Covenant armor. We created our own way of making the mine 'stick'.

Esposito gave one last push and tentatively took his hands off the mine. Thankfully, it held, being wedged in far enough to not drop out. The Hispanic marine hit the priming mechanism on the anti-tank mine's underbelly. "_Fire in the hole!_" he screamed, sprinting away from the tank like the Devil himself were on his heels. For a devout Catholic, he didn't do a bad job of it. For a devout Protestant and Atheist, respectively, Devereux and I were already halfway across the street. So much for valor, huh?

The wraith simply sat still for a second, as if the Elite driving it suddenly realized that it was about to go on a one-way trip to the afterlife. Well, it had only a moment to make peace with itself. The LOTUS mine detonated with a deafening bang, completely trashing the wraith. The blast was directed forwards, bursting the wraith's rounded frontal armor into hundreds of small pieces. The driver…well, there wasn't much of the poor Elite left.

Esposito swore as he was thrown forward by the force of the explosion, executing a graceful faceplant into the cobblestones. With a score of Elites heading right for us, that was _not_ a good place to be in.

I pushed Devereux forward, telling her to keep going, and turned on my heel, sprinting back to Esposito. The Hispanic marine was dazed from the hit to his head. I could also see shrapnel from the wasted wraith embedded in his left thigh—he was going to need medical attention. "Common, Miguel, we gotta _move!_" I shouted, hauling Esposito to his feet. I started heading back for the 'safety' of the ruined townhouses. I felt a sharp pain in the small of my back as I went, but I ignored it and kept right on going.

Dempsey and Banks were waiting for me beyond the sidewalk. Banks took Esposito off my hands, helping the bleeding marine away from the street.

I remembered the smell of smoke and burning wood more than anything else. Everything seemed so white in the snowfall, and I found it…unnaturally beautiful, for some reason. I took a deep breath…then another, because the first didn't quite do the job…then a third…

Why was it getting so hard to breathe? It was almost as if I were trying to draw air through a pillow.

I heard the sound of a voice to my left, but the mere act of turning my head seemed more complicated than quantum physics. I managed to do it though, and I saw Dempsey's horrified expression. My friend was shouting something, but I couldn't quite understand him.

That was when I realized that it was weird that everything looked so white. The snow had been melted and atomized by the plasma from the wraiths, so there _was_ no white around here, anymore. My vision was going.

I then realized that I wasn't moving forward anymore. I looked down and saw two things. One: I was on my knees, and two: the end of a long, crystalline projectile was protruding from the left side of my abdomen. I recognized the thing; it was from a Covenant needle rifle, the rifle equivalent of the needler. It fired similar, crystal-like projectiles…only they were a good deal _larger_ than the needler's. And now one of them had impaled me right through my gut.

My mouth curved in a faint smile and I laughed quietly; _that_ was why it was so hard to breathe. I don't know why I found that so funny, but I kept on laughing until tears streamed down my face and my abdomen started to ache.

I felt Dempsey grab my shoulder and hold me up. That was good; laying me down would only have agitated the large, explosive crystal shard lodged in there.

I got my laughing under control and, with every remaining scrap of willpower I still possessed, managed to whisper, "_A medic would be nice, Demp._"

At least, I _think_ I whispered that. Maybe I was unintelligible, or maybe no sound had come out at all. Either way, I never got the chance to consider those possibilities. The last thought that crossed my mind before I lost consciousness was how I should bribe Saint Peter to let me through the Pearly Gates, if that was where I ended up.

Maybe he'd settle for a nice game of Texas hold 'em?


	20. II Chapter 20: Acclimation

Chapter Twenty: Acclimation

**November 25, 2536 (Military Calendar) \  
Verus III, Alpha Tauris System**

The Winchester had once been a pub in the center of Cedar Rapids where us grunts would go when we were sent on a twenty-four hour leave. It was a good place to get drunk and forget the war for a few blissful hours. I had been in here doing exactly that only two weeks ago.

Now, it was where the medical personnel were sticking the boys who they had finished sewing together. It was a post-op recovery room, or something like that. I was sitting on the edge of my cot, tapping my feet impatiently, waiting for the doctor to get his ass back here so that he could discharge me.

The whole space was jam-packed with grunts like me, recovering from their wounds. Compared to some of the other guys and girls in here, I wasn't too bad off. In fact, I was actually rather well off. Sure, getting wounded sucked next to not getting wounded at all, but getting _lightly_ wounded was better than getting _heavily_ wounded.

Truth be told, I was lucky to be alive, right now. Five days ago, I had gotten speared right through the gut with a twelve-inch explosive crystal shard from one of the Covies' needle rifles. I was lucky that it had gone through my left side, rather than going through my spine. According to the medics, the corpsmen had managed to rush me in just before I bled out. The doctors at the triage simply pumped me full of biofoam and attended to the marines who were worse off than I was before attending to me.

When I was talking to an off-duty corpsman the other day, he was telling me how I was one of the lucky ones. '_All you got was a crystal through the gut,_' he had said with a nonchalant shrug. '_You didn't get any plasma burns; those are the real Devil here._' I couldn't really argue with him there.

Removing these needle spikes was a delicate process. If they were handled too roughly, the crystal spikes would detonate in the surgeons' faces. It took a little while to get the spike _out_ before they could start repairing the muscle and tissue damage.

I don't know the extent of the damage; when the doctors started explaining it to me, I just told them that I really didn't care. All I cared about was that they had brought me back, and for that I thanked them.

I still had bandages wrapped around my abdomen—the wound wasn't fully healed. However, General Lafayette had ordered any marines who had non-life-threatening wounds back to the front. Sure, getting speared through the stomach hadn't exactly been pleasant, but I wasn't in any danger right now. The doctors had done a bang-up job. I could walk and hold a gun, so there was nothing binding me to the field hospital.

The backroom door swung open and Lieutenant Colonel Patrikos strode into the room, datapad in hand. He wove his way through the dozens of other occupied cots already in the room. The tall, lanky man in the white surgeon's apron was not much older than myself, but his rank wasn't unusual. Surgeons were always given high officer ranks so that their authority could supersede that of their patients. Many were captains and majors, but more experienced surgeons made it to light colonel, or even bird colonel.

"Morning, Staff Sergeant Garris," the Battalion surgeon nodded to me when he reached my cot. He held out his datapad to me. "Just press your thumb on the green square and you're a free man."

I spotted the green square on the screen of the datapad, doing as I was told. "You know, Doc," I said as I pressed my thumb to the screen, completing my discharge, "You don't risk your life every day and night by fighting on the front lines, and yet…" I glanced around the room, "…and yet, despite that, I can't say I envy you. You must see all kinds of shit every day."

"It's a trade-off," Patrikos shrugged. "I see the ones who make it back to the field hospital. You see the ones who don't."

"Yeah, I guess," I nodded in agreement, rising to my feet. I winced as the bandages tugged at the wound briefly, but the moment quickly passed.

"I'm not going to bother telling you to take it easy on yourself," Patrikos sighed. "Asking a marine from our battalion to do that…I might as well try to ask an ONI operative to give me a straight answer. So please, at least keep the fact that you're still healing in the back of your mind, alright? If I see you back here with a reopened wound, I'm going to stitch my name into it."

I thanked the surgeon again and walked right out of the post-op in the Winchester, heading across the street to the Cedar Rapids central post office. In the main room, I gave my name to one of the MPs behind the counter. The man checked to make sure I had indeed been discharged, and then vanished into the backroom for a minute. He came back with a large box, sliding it across the counter to me. Inside was my gear and my BR55.

Even when surrounded without any hope of escape, the 9th Force Recon still managed to operate like a well-oiled machine. I quickly changed into my fatigues and battle armor, picking up my battle rifle and slinging it over my shoulder. I walked out of the post office without another word.

After a few minutes, I heard the hum of a tank engine behind me. "Hey, marine! Where're you supposed to be?" a voice called out to me from behind. I had been walking down the street towards my unit's last position. It would have been a long walk, but I could have done it. However, if I was able to get a ride…

I turned around to see who had spoken. A scorpion tank was sitting in the middle of the pockmarked street. Its hatch was open and the driver—a young, but obviously experienced sergeant with close-cropped blond hair and icy-gray eyes—was poking his head and shoulders out. I pulled down my HUD eyepiece and glanced at the man's FOF identifier. His name was Harry Irons, and he was part of Famine Contingent. The scorpion's heavy mounted turret, however, was empty.

"My unit was stationed in the residential district to the northwest," I replied, stepping towards the tank, pointing in the direction I had indicated.

The sergeant gave a single laugh. "You just got out from under the knife, didn't you? The residential district fell yesterday. You're 9th Force Recon, right? You boys have fallen back to the Westfall District, about three klicks to the north."

"We've been pushed back that far?" I nearly shouted in surprise. We had lost a lot more of Cedar Rapids than I had through we would.

The tank sergeant nodded grimly. "Same story on all the other fronts. The 506th got whipped out of the southern outskirts two days ago. Those boys aren't too far from here either. Here, I've been reassigned to Lieutenant Swell's outfit, which is stationed in the Westfall District. Tell you what; climb in and man the turret for me, and I'll give you a ride."

"I think I'll take you up on that, Sarge," I grinned, climbing up onto the top of the scorpion. I stepped over the central hump and slid into the gunner's nest for the heavy turret that provided the scorpion's point defense.

"Keep an eye out for Covies; more and more of 'em have been slipping through the lines at night," Sergeant Irons warned me as he settled back into the cockpit, sealing the hatch over his head.

"Will do," I replied, speaking into my helmet mic so he could hear me. I held onto the grips of the mounted turret as Irons sent the scorpion rumbling forward. The tank was able to get a good speed going on the roads—we were moving at upwards of forty miles per hour at first, but Irons eased off as we drew further away from the center of town. We could have gone a lot faster, but the roads had been torn up by the continual plasma bombardment, forcing Irons to slow down to avoid damaging the treads.

I could hear the faint whine of banshee engines after a minute of smooth cruising. I warned Irons of this after I was sure of what I was hearing.

"_Alright, let me handle 'em,_" Irons responded over the COM. The scorpion kept moving forward, but the main cannon came to life and started to swing upward, pointing towards the sky.

Sure enough, a trio of banshees soared out of the clouds, their twin plasma cannons ablaze as they opened fire on the command centers in the middle of town. Small explosions fill the air around the Covie fliers as our AA flak guns started opening up.

Irons didn't wait for the anti-aircraft to do the job. The main cannon roared, spitting flames several feet from the barrel and propelling a ninety-millimeter tungsten shell right through the air and into the lead banshee.

The Covie flier blew apart in mid-air, chunks of it trailing smoke as they fell gently back to the earth.

Most tank operators would have left it at that, but Irons wasn't done. As the banshees streaked overhead, the scorpion's cannon swiveled around to face backwards. Irons edged the cannon down a hair to compensate for the banshees' speed and opened fire once again. Just as they vanished over the buildings to our south, one of the two remaining fliers exploded as well.

Two out of three; not bad. Not bad at all.

"Good shooting," I said to the tank sergeant.

"_I'm one of the best gunners you'll find in this Expeditionary Force,_" Irons responded. "_That ain't bragging; that's just fact._"

After our run-in with the banshees, the only other contact Irons and I had with the enemy was a group of six or eight grunts. The small, gray-skinned aliens had charged out of a side alley, sprinting right towards us, primed plasma grenades burning bright cyan in their little hands.

I cut the lot of them down with the turret, firing in short, sustained bursts. After five or so bursts, the grunts lay dead in the street. Their grenades then detonated harmlessly, turning the corpses into gory red confetti. I hocked up a lugie and spat on their remains as we rolled on by.

The Westfall District was located just north of the central hub of Cedar Rapids, where the packed, bustling city center started to gradually thin out into something in between an urban and suburban setting.

The defenses were strong all along the length of this district; burnt-out husks of buildings formed excellent cover for entrenched marines. From them, we seemed to be holding all of the Covenant's recent assaults at bay. Even before we actually reached the district, I could hear the sounds of the fighting raging there.

There was one weak point in the district, however. Even though we were putting up a good fight, I already knew that this weak point was where the Covenant was going to break through.

The Cedar Rapids High School looked nothing like a school anymore. Most of its roof had been blown to sunshine by the plasma bombardment, but the lower two levels were still intact. A field hospital had been set up in the track in front of the school. I could see corpsmen constantly moving back and forth from the front line and that hospital, almost like furious worker bees moving around a hive.

There were no trenches or foxholes, not here. I could see marines huddling for cover in craters torn into the asphalt by plasma bolts, ducking behind the stone walls lining the high school's campus, or simply standing behind trees. Anything that could provide sufficient cover, marines were behind.

There was a good deal of our infantry holed up inside the remaining two levels of the high school, as well. The town wasn't quite so dense, here; the school was surrounded by open space. There were baseball and soccer fields for sports, the track on our side of the school, and the open expanse of parking lots on the far side, which was the school's front.

There were a few other scorpions and a dragon patrolling the line, lending a hand wherever necessary. There had to be more of them elsewhere; I just couldn't see them from where we were.

Irons kept moving down the road towards the high school. We couldn't clearly see what was happening beyond, as the school was set at the top of a gradual hill. Even though I was certain the Covenant would break through here, that hill would make their breakthrough extremely painful for them.

Smoke was gushing into the sky in great black pillars, swishing to the side as they gained altitude and got carried off by the wind. The sky was a perpetual grayish-red hue, only adding to the hellish atmosphere.

"_This is your stop,_" Irons contacted me as we neared the high school. "_I have to report to the 121__st__ CP, further on down._"

Through my HUD eyepiece, I managed to identify the marines in and around the school as Force Recon. These were my boys.

I climbed up out of the turret nest as Irons brought the scorpion down to a crawl. "Good hunting out there," I said to the tank sergeant as I hopped off the scorpion's tread and onto the cracked, bubbled asphalt of the road. "Drop by again."

"_Will do, devil-dog,_" Irons replied. "_Good luck_."

And with that, Irons's scorpion was off, heading towards the command center of the elements of the 121st Armored that had been trapped in Cedar Rapids with us, leaving me alone on the side of the street.

I took my BR55 off of my shoulder and held it with one hand, running the rest of the way. There was no road that led directly to the school—the only one that did that was the one that went into the parking lots on the other side of the school…which was right where the Covenant was advancing through. I would just have to cut across the fields. I jumped the chain link fence and pushed my way through the tall grass that bordered the fringes of the school campus.

The hospital on the track field was the definition of mayhem. Corpsmen were running left and right, ferrying wounded and stretchers in and out of the set-up. I could only imagine what the meatball surgeons here were going through. This was basically a processing plant—marines who could be saved were patched up and sent back to the center of town for real surgery. Those who couldn't be saved were given last rites by the chaplain—or kaddish, or the talqueen, depending on the religion—and were made comfortable before they finally flatlined.

I made my way through the mess as quickly as possible, dodging corpsmen and stretchers and making my way towards the high school. There was a semi-steady flow of personnel lugging supplies in through the doors of the school cafeteria, so that was where I headed.

"Hey, buddy, you know where Alpha Company's at?" I asked one of the guys carrying the ammo crates.

"Fuck if I know, now get the hell outta my way," the foul-mouthed man pushed past me, moving to add his crate to the pile already sitting in the middle of the cafeteria.

"_Asshole_…" I muttered, shouldering my way past the loaders and stepping into the cafeteria. I'd find Alpha Company _somewhere _in the halls; might as well look for them myself.

I passed Colonel Ndebele, Major Talbot, and the rest of the Battalion HQ jockeys in the main lobby, which was down the hall and to the left of the cafeteria. Had I gone to the right, I would have wound up in the gym, which was where marines on temporary break were resting up before getting back to it.

The lobby had four ways out—the way I had come, the main entrance to the left, the main office to the right, and a stairwell in front which led up to the second level, as well as the lattice of hallways and classrooms on the first floor. I pushed through the Battalion HQ mess and bounded up the stairs, dodging other personnel making their way down. I pushed my way through the hallways, sparing quick glances into the classrooms on either side as I went.

I found Lieutenant Wilkins, Alpha Company's executive officer, at the other end of the hallway, which was packed with marines from Delta Company. My company XO in a classroom, spotting for a team of marines who were manning a Gauss cannon, which had been mounted on one of the windows. A crate of the miniature MAC rounds fired by the cannon was sitting open next to the window. Every time the gunner fired, the loader would jerk another round into the breech.

"Lieutenant Wilkins, sir!" I called over to my company executive officer, who regarded me at first with some measure of surprise before he wiped the expression from his face, returning to the stoic, all-business tone that officers were so fond of. "Reporting back for duty, sir…would you mind pointing me in the direction of my platoon?"

"Sergeant Dempsey took command of your squad after you got hit," the Lieutenant informed me. "They're down with the rest of the company at the lower parking lot. Best hurry—they can use every gun they can get down there!"

"Thank you, sir," I snapped Wilkins a quick salute before turning on my heel and sprinting out of the room.

"Good to see you back in one piece, Staff Sergeant!" the Lieutenant hollered after me.

I flew down the nearest stairwell to the first floor and barreled out the first exit I came across, pushing my way through dozens more marines as I went. I found myself outside the front of the school. The main entrance was over on the side of the school, but there were still several smaller entrances along the front wall, which faced north, the direction the Covenant were attacking from. Judging by the lane that ran parallel to this face of the school, this was where students usually got off the bus in the morning.

Now, instead of schoolbuses, the lane was occupied by a pair of scorpions and several troop warthogs ferrying wounded and fresh reinforcements to the front line.

I ran across this lane into the athletic parking lot, making my way through the dozens of cars and automobiles parked in it. The parking lot was set into the hill slope that gradually curved down from the front of the school, so the slope continued after the other side of the athletic lot. A flight of stairs ran down this next length of the hillside down to the much larger lower lot, where all of the students who were able to drive would park their cars.

The residents of Cedar Rapids must have been evacuated during a school day, because the lower lot was still filled with cars. Most of them were just burnt-out wrecks—having been destroyed in the relentless Covenant onslaught—but they still made for excellent cover.

Beyond the lower lot and further on down the hill was Millsboro Street, which ran parallel to the school. A small access road ran from the street to the lower lot.

Sandbags had been piled up at the edge of the lower lot. Because of the sandbags and the downward slope of the hill, I couldn't see anything beyond the firing line. I knew that the area on the other side of Millsboro Street was a public park bordered on all sides by thick woods, but all I could see was the top halves of the trees and the burning blue flashes of plasmafire.

Alpha Company was down in the lower lot, occupying the husks of cars and the quasi-line at the perimeter of the parking lot, where the asphalt ended and the hill continued. Dozens and dozens of marines were opening fire down the hill, shooting at the obscured Covie attackers.

I came across Captain Howell towards the middle of the parking lot, conversing with Lieutenant Hasegawa, one of the other platoon leaders. He was busy and didn't have time for chitchat. When he saw me, he simply jerked his head in the direction of what I hoped was my platoon.

Sure enough, I found my squad hunkered down behind a semi-circle of sandbags and three burnt-out car wrecks that were right on the edge of the lower lot. For the first time, I was able to see the Covenant attack that was trying to climb up the hillside, which was littered with hundreds of grunt and jackal corpses, as well as a good number of dead Elites and destroyed ghosts.

Our casualties were mounting up, too. Not as heavily as the Covenant—we had the high ground, as well as good cover—but still enough to be noticed. When I found my squad, I saw that at least two-thirds of them sported minor wounds of some sort.

"Sarge!" Banks waved over to me. I held up my hand, waving back. Several friendly faces turned towards me, giving me respectful nods, but that was it. Devereux even managed a quick grin before her attention was dragged back to the fight. At a time like this, there was no time for a proper tearful, blubbery reunion with my comrades.

Dempsey, who was slapping a fresh mag into his MA5B, rolled over to face me, not even noticing the beam rifle shot slicing through the air above his cover. "Welcome back, Alley," he said, "Good to see you again, glad you're alright, now _take your goddamn squad back!_" he shouted suddenly.

"Hello again, boys and girls," I said into my helmet mic, talking on the SQUADCOM. "Someone give me an SR; what the fuck happened since I left?"

"We got sodomized, that's what happened!" Dempsey shouted in reply. "After you got hit, things quieted down a bit, then the next morning they hit us again! Hunters, lots of Hunters…more wraiths, too. Supply had been hit and we were out of rockets… They trashed us, man, they fuckin' _trashed_ us…"

"How long have you been here?" I asked next, flicking off my battle rifle's safety and aiming down at the hordes of grunts that were still trying to climb the hill, clambering over their dead brethren, their high-pitched, squeaky cries adding to the roar of the firefight.

"Two days!" Dempsey yelled back, opening fire with his MA5B, peppering a pair of grunts who strayed into his kill zone. "Covies kicked us out of the residential areas pretty damn fast—all we could do was harass them; there was no place to set up a solid defensive line. We stumbled across this fine piece of land two days ago, fortified it, and dug in. Been fightin' the bastards off ever since!"

"Quite a story!" I quipped, firing a three-round burst into a grunt that was charging with a primed plasma grenade in its hand. It fell face-down and the nade went off. The explosion consumed the five grunts that had been nearest to the now-deceased one, detonating their methane tanks.

"Bet your sorry ass it is!" Dempsey grunted. "Now you get to make it up to us for sleeping through the whole thing!"

"I had a goddamn explosive spike lodged in my stomach; give me a fucking break! When was the last time _you_ got impaled?" I retorted, swinging my aim over and dropping another grunt which had started to lay down some fire on my squad with its purple needler weapon.

The individual needles of that weapon weren't particularly harmful, as long as they didn't directly hit you in your vulnerable points. When they hit you, you ran the risk of having them explode in your body. However, when seven or eight of them hit a target, they exploded in a blast several times more powerful, and it was a certainty. When they supercombined like that, you wanted to be a good distance away. So, when you see something firing those purple needles, it was always a good idea to waste that alien before it fired enough needles to get the big explosion.

After I took out that last grunt, I couldn't find anymore living targets to shoot. All of the attacking grunts had suddenly retreated, leaving the lower lot eerily silent.

Marines started to relax, lying down on the asphalt and breaking out their smokes. Dempsey lit a cig after he rested his MA5B against the burnt car husk which we had been taking cover behind. The transition from heated firefight to relaxed rest period had been so sudden that it almost didn't seem real. One moment the marines were blazing away, desperately trying to keep the Covenant back, then the next they were kicking back and laughing, as if they had been on R and R all day.

Dempsey took a deep drag on his smoke, then exhaled it in a gradual breath. He settled back into a more comfortable position—which was hard to do against a car—and gave a contented sigh. "Ah…this is the best part of the whole fuckin' day, right here."

"Hm?"

"It's a cycle. They send grunts into the meatgrinder, wait about an hour, and then come back with armor…or Hunters, or air support—they'll cook up something good for us, don't you worry."

I didn't argue with my old friend. If he said we were going to have a bit of a break from the Covenant attack, then I was going to believe him. Why the hell not? I pulled out a smoke of my own and lit up, sighing with relief as the shit in the smoke soothed my mind.

"How's the fight going in the rest of the town?" Dempsey asked as we settled down.

"About as well as it's doing here," I murmured.

"That bad?"

"Worse."

Dempsey grunted, taking the cig out of his mouth and blowing a stream of smoke into the air. We just sat there, watching the hellish red sky, listening to the constant sound of plasma shells destroying the town.

It felt good to be back. I felt almost naked without my battle armor and weapon. To some, a weapon's weight was a burden. To me, the weight of my BR55 in my arms was like a security blanket. With it, not only was I in control of my own fate, I was in control of the fates of everything around me. That was always handy during a war.

"You had me nervous, back there," Dempsey said after a few minutes of blissful silence. "With a wound like that, you had us _all_ nervous. Your girlfriend didn't speak for the next two days, you know," he added absent-mindedly, as if it were an afterthought.

I let out a resigned sigh. Once Dempsey started his mind games, he didn't usually stop until he got slapped. "I thought I told you to shut the hell up about the whole Devereux thing. You forget already?"

Dempsey rolled over and fixed me with an amused gaze. "I just said 'girlfriend'. Whoever said I was talking about Devereux?" he asked innocently, even going so far as to bat his eyes once at me.

I aimed a punch at his eye, which he quickly ducked. "Who the hell _else_ would you mean?" I grumbled.

Dempsey smiled. "So you finally admit it, then? You _do_ want to-"

I leaned back against the car. "Whatever."

Dempsey let out a loud bark of laughter. "You remember back when we were still in the Antonine Forest? When I told you that you may not have a tomorrow?" Dempsey laughed again, taking another drag. "Look around, man. We're surrounded and fighting a losing battle. You said so yourself; at this rate, the whole fucking town is gonna be leveled in a week or less. When I said that there may not be a tomorrow in the Antonine Forest, it had been a strong possibility. Now it's a certainty. What the fuck are you waiting for, a gilded invitation?"

"I'm just…" I looked for the right words, but wasn't quite able to find them. Ah well, I tried anyway. "I'm not good with feelings, alright? I mean…common, you were with me, man; I was only sixteen when we lost our home. Before that, I had lived on the streets since I was thirteen years old. After that, we went straight into boot camp at Needle Point, on Reach. Saying I've never had time for a relationship in my life would be a huge understatement."

"Well, it's not quite true, anymore," Dempsey reasoned. "You _do_ have time, now. About five or six days, provided you don't buy a plot _before_ the Covies completely overrun us. Stop staring at a distance and make 'em count, will ya?"

I didn't reply. I just sat there, digesting our conversation and smoking my cig down to a stub.

I exhaled the smoke, trying to blow a smoke ring. I failed, miserably, of course—I had never quite gotten the knack of smoke rings. They were _hard_. I decided to make it one of the two things I had to do before I died. As for the other…

I glanced furtively in Devereux's direction. She was lying down on the asphalt with her eyes closed, making the most of the temporary lull in the Covenant assault. I moved to get up, intending to go over to her, but something stopped me.

Well, no…I stopped myself. _Not now,_ I said inwardly to myself.

Of course, if not now, then _when?_ Soon, we would all be memories, and-

I shook my head, pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind. Instead, I started cleaning my BR55 and thinking about the upcoming fight, which was much, _much_ easier to do.

Maybe I would stop a plasma round with my head in the next assault. Sure, I'd be dead, but my life would become a hell of a lot simpler.


	21. II Chapter 21: School's Out

Chapter Twenty-One: School's Out

**November 25, 2536 (Military Calendar) \  
Verus III, Alpha Tauris System**

"Good to have you back, Sarge," Olsen said to me after I sat down. I noticed that my squadmates had now started calling me 'Sarge', just like we had done with Macintyre. I must be doing _something_ right. Or maybe they were just happy to have me back. In a war like this where losing comrades happened more often than crime in major cities, getting lost comrades _back_ was always a treat.

"Good to _be_ back," I murmured. I then chuckled and corrected myself. "Well…scratch that; words can't even describe how shitty it is to be back here…but it sure as hell beats lying in a post-op room full of…well, you get the idea."

"We know what you meant," Banks chuckled as well.

"I have to say, you had me worried, _amigo,_" Esposito—who had obviously been discharged by the medics before me—said. "Not that I didn't think you could pull through, but that spike in your stomach just looked _bad_…hell, you had us _all_ worried."

"Gonna take a bit more than that to get me off the field, I'm afraid," I declared, exhaling the smoke from my lungs. "Just a tiny bit more. Not a lot more, though…" I had no illusions of how lucky I had been to survive my stomach wound from five days ago. Had that spike hit my spine…

I shook my head to clear my mind, probably the fourth or fifth time I had done so within the past hour. I had to stop thinking about that damned wound—I would drive myself crazy if I kept on going on about how close to death I had come. I'm a staff sergeant, for Christ sake; I'm better than that.

"Hey, Alley!" Dempsey called over from his spot by the car wreck next to our semi-circle of sandbags. "I think we got some movement downstairs!"

I checked my mission clock, giving a dejected sigh. Dempsey had said that the lull in the Covenant assault would last roughly an hour…and, sure enough, that had been fifty-seven minutes ago. With that in mind, I pulled out my fiber optic micro-camera, poking it over the top of the sandbag mounds.

I couldn't see a thing. For a few moments, I thought Dempsey had just been seeing things. There was nothing on thermal, and the motion sensor wasn't picking up any movement, either. I was about to tell Dempsey to get his head checked when something caught my eye. It had only been a flash of something, but it was enough for me to recognize it as inhuman. This had to be reported in.

I activated my COM, speaking into my helmet mic. "Hey, El-Tee," I said. "I'm picking up some possible contacts in the trees below."

"_Do you have an ID on the signatures?_" Lieutenant McCandlish asked.

"Negative," I replied. "Thermal's coming up empty, too…probably grunts massing for another assault, sir."

"_That doesn't make any sense_…" McCandlish murmured over the COM. "_They already sent in the grunts in the last wave_… _Why would they do so twice in a row?_"

"Sir, I'm just telling it like I see it," I shrugged. It wasn't my job to know why the Covenant were doing what they were doing; my job was simply to stop them from doing it.

"_Right,_" McCandlish responded. "_I'll inform Captain Howell. Keep an eye on those movements_. _McCandlish out._"

"Well?" Dempsey called over to me.

"He's informing the Captain," I said to my old friend. I then raised my voice and addressed the entire squad. "Everyone, keep your eyes peeled for any signs of hostile movement in the woods! When the Covies attack, I don't want them catching us with our pants down!"

Esposito shook Devereux awake while everyone else stretched out their kinks and took up their positions along the semi-circle of sandbags. Similar orders were being shouted by the other squad leaders up and down the line at the edge of the Cedar Rapids High School's lower lot.

I crouched there quietly, BR55 at the ready, half-finished cigarette hanging from the side of my mouth. The chatter from the other marines along the line quieted down to a faint murmur, and then to silence. Normally, the only sound would have been birdsong, but there were no birds left in this area. The only sound was the dull _whump_ of the plasma bombardment, as well as the faint, perpetual tapping noise of distant gunfire.

I clicked my tongue, beginning to tap my foot impatiently as the silence dragged on. Esposito started humming a tune under his breath, tapping his fingers against his MA5B.

The transition from silence to firefight happened so quickly that it took me a full two seconds to register the sudden change. One moment we had been sitting tense, waiting for the Covenant to make their move…and the next, the air was suddenly filled with plasmafire and needler rounds.

An overcharged plasma shot clipped Banks in the shoulder, melting right through his armor. He fell backwards, clutching his shoulder in silent agony—plasma burns were the absolute worst. I took a quick glance and deduced that he'd be alright—the plasma hadn't hit his actual shoulder. I had just grazed the flesh.

I ducked just as a heavy needle speared through the air where my head had been. Bright green shots from the Covenant carbine weapons—usually used by jackal and Elite sharpshooters—started searing over the sandbags, crisscrossing through the air.

I swore; this new wave seemed to be composed primarily of grunts, but there were also other warriors—Elites and jackals—mixed in as well. They would give us trouble.

And yet…

As I returned fire, laying down some much-deserved lead onto the Covie bastards, I noticed that only the grunts were making any effort to get across Millsboro Street and up the hill. The Elites and jackals seemed content just to hang back in the trees. That was unlike the Elites—usually they would be in the thick of a charge like this. Hanging back in the rear in such a manner was usually abhorrent to them…unless it served some sort of tactical agenda.

Having no time to think on the possibility any further, I resumed doing my job—fire, eject, reload, prime, fire again…and then repeating the cycle over and over until either the Covenant stopped trying to climb the hill, or I stopped a plasma burst with my head. The latter possibility was more likely to happen than the former, unfortunately.

I put a pair of grunts out of their misery before laying some fire down on one of the Elites, prompting the alien to duck behind a tree to allow its shields to regenerate.

That was what pissed me off the most about ground fighting with those bastards—they were just as killable as we were…only they had their goddamn little pussy-shields they could hind behind that allowed them to take hits that would normally kill them. Once they got hit, they could just sit tight and let those shields recharge, then come back out just as strong as he had been before.

All we had was our battle armor and flesh. When _we_ got hit, it took us weeks to recharge. That, or we just died straight-off. Why does Human life have to be so goddamn fragile?

I suppose it didn't really matter one way or another. Even if we were just as fast or as strong as Elites, we would always be trumped in space. The Covenant Navy would always be able to come in and burn the planet, no matter how good of a fight we could put up on the ground.

I lurched, falling to my knees as I felt something hot sear across the right side of my neck, right where it met my shoulder. It had been one of the caseless radioactive projectiles fired by the Covenant carbine, visible to us as a streak of green.

I shouted at the sudden pain, clutching at my neck with my hand. I was bleeding, but it seemed like it had just been a flesh wound.

"Jesus Christ, Sarge is hit again!" Olsen crawled over to me, pulling my hand away and examining the hit.

"Stop ogling and get me a fucking bandage!" I howled into my squadmate's face, keeping the blood suppressed with my hand. "God _damn,_ these fuckers know how to make guns that hurt…"

One of the company medics got a biofoam-infused bandage onto my neck, allowing me to get back up to my place on the firing line. The graze on my neck was still smarting, but it was nothing a marine couldn't handle. The moment I started resuming fire, another carbine shot snapped past my ear. Somewhere, a jackal sharpshooter had me in its sights.

I shouldered my BR55, slid over to the left a meter, and opened fire again, keeping an eye open for the muzzle flash of the jackal carbine. Sure enough, another carbine shot missed me by a foot or so—I had been purposely moving myself around so that the jackal had no clear shot at me. The shot came from one of the treetops at the edge of Millsboro Streets.

I snapped my aim over to that tree—a tall oak-like tree with deep orange leaves—and quickly spotted the jackal sharpshooter, but I didn't have enough time to take it out. I ducked behind cover just as two more of the radioactive green bursts seared over my head.

"Esposito!" I called over to the Hispanic marine, who was holed up with Devereux behind one of the car wrecks. "Jackal sharpshooter in the orange at two o'clock; occupy it for me!"

"You got it!" Esposito shouted back. The Hispanic marine shouldered his MA5B, stood up, and started to spray the orange-leafed tree.

The moment he did that, he ducked back down just as the jackal opened fire at him.

I seized the chance. I took a deep breath, adjusting my grip on my BR55, and sprang to my feet, turning towards the orange-leafed tree and bringing my rifle's scope up to my eye as I shot up. By the time I was standing up straight, I already had the jackal sharpshooter centered dead in my crosshairs.

I squeezed the trigger, sending three semi-armor-piercing rounds straight into the lizard-like Covie's skull. I gave a satisfied grin as I watched its corpse flop out of the trees, dropping back behind the sandbags.

Esposito gave a grunt of respect as he watched me countersnipe that jackal. "Why the fuck aren't you a sniper, Sarge?"

"Ask the Spec Ops cumbuckets who keep turning me down!" I shouted back in reply.

The Covies didn't let up. More grunts threw themselves into the fight with renewed vigor, to all of our puzzlement. Why did the Covenant keep on sending more and more grunts into the slaughter? They weren't even softening us up any; we were just massacring them. Couldn't the Covenant see that they were only hurting themselves?

In hindsight, it was plain and obvious why the Covenant kept on sending wave after wave of fodder into our meatgrinder. It was exactly the same thing I had done with the jackal sniper, only on a much larger scale. As long as there was a constant threat to our lines, my company's entire focus was on keeping these grunts back before they swarmed us, which we had been doing quite well.

The point was that it had been an effective distraction. And even if the grunts _hadn't_ been attacking…we still probably would have gotten caught with our pants down. What the Covenant did to us had just been so…unexpected. No one had seen it coming.

I was slapping in a fresh mag and moving along my squad, checking up on everyone, making sure no one had any life-threatening issues that would hamper their ability to keep on spitting lead into the advancing Covies. I was just moving away from Banks and Pope when I felt the ground heave.

The ground rumbled for a second, then it just seemed to swell and explode under our feet. My vision was filled with fire and a bright white light, my ears with a steady thumping noise which I realized was my own heartbeat.

I then realized that I was lying on the ground, staring up to the sky. I blinked twice, shook my head, and pushed myself into a sitting position. A harsh ringing filled my ears and my vision was still washed out and blurry. I leaned over and grabbed my BR55, pushing myself up to my feet. I staggered forward a few steps, taking in the scene.

A massive crater now sat in the center of the lower lot, and a good-sized strip of the parking lot had collapsed. Marines all over were doing as I was doing; staggering to their feet, glancing around in horror at what had just happened.

The only way for something to cause an explosion and subsequent crater like that would be for it to have detonated a good distance belowground. The Covenant had been occupying us with waves of worthless grunts on our lines, and while we concentrated on keeping the grunts back, the Covenant must have been tunneling. The noise of the firefight would mask any sounds coming up from the tunnel below, effectively concealing it until it was complete, at which time all they would need to do is plant charges…and then _BOOM_. No more defensive line.

I faintly heard Lieutenant McCandlish shouting orders in the background, his Manchester accent easily distinguishable amongst the din. I felt someone grab my shoulder and spin me around. It was Dempsey, and he was yelling something, but I couldn't quite understand him.

The ringing in my ears lowered and turned to a rushing noise, which grew louder and louder until, when it was about to drown out everything else, it suddenly vanished and I could hear everything Dempsey was screaming at me.

"Alley, we have to _move!_" he was shouting. "Snap out of it!"

I shook my head again, doing away with the remnants and vestiges of my disorientation. "Rally anyone you find and start moving the wounded back up to the athletic lot!" I ordered my friend.

The two of us split up and started rounding up the dazed and disorganized marines of Alpha Company. The two remaining platoon lieutenants—Lieutenant Enders, 1st Platoon's leader, had been killed in the explosion, leaving the unit in charge of a sergeant—were doing the same thing.

More plasmafire started to streak through the air. Out of the corner of my eye I could see ranks of Elites activating their energy swords and charging across Millsboro Street. We had to get the fuck out of this parking lot or we would get butchered.

Alpha Company was now almost completely composed of wounded marines. The marines who were only lightly wounded were all helping their less lucky comrades back through the lower lot to the stairs leading up the hill to the athletic lot.

"Sarge! Gimme a hand over here!" I heard Esposito yelling to me from one of the car wrecks. I whistled to Dempsey, bringing him along with me to where Esposito was crouching. My heart sank to my stomach when I saw what Esposito needed us for.

Devereux was pinned under the car which she and Esposito had been taking cover behind. The subterranean blast had tilted the car over onto her legs—Esposito, obviously, had gotten out in time. He had always been the fastest member of my squad. The car was still propped up a little bit by one of its tires, which was the only thing that had kept it from completely crushing Devereux. We couldn't see her legs, but her head was visible through one of the window spaces.

Most of the others in the company had successfully gotten up to the athletic lot and were laying some sporadic fire down on the advancing Elites to slow them down while the rest of the wounded limped away.

"Soph! Soph, you hear me? _Soph!_" I called out to Devereux as Esposito, Dempsey, and I got a grip on the overturned car wreck that was on top of her. Her eyelids fluttered and her mouth twitched. She was coming around, but just barely.

"One…two…three, and _lift!_" Dempsey grunted, heaving at the car wreck. Between the three of us, Esposito, Dempsey, and I were able to move the wreck with relative ease. Dempsey and Esposito held the car up while I grabbed Devereux by the shoulders and dragged her out of there.

I had no time to get her on her feet, so I threw her over my shoulder—the one that hadn't been hit by the carbine shot—and started making my way back through the lower lot.

Esposito had grabbed her M90 and was priming it, getting ready to deal with any Elites who caught up to us. Luckily, we didn't have that problem; we made it up to the athletic lot without any trouble. Sure, we all nearly got hit by all the plasma in the air, but none of us actually _did_ get hit. That's all that counted.

A couple of heavy fifties had been moved up to the athletic lot, and they opened fire, now that all of Alpha Company's survivors had made it out of the lower lot. Marines from Bravo Company were manning this new temporary defense line, allowing us to retreat to the safety of the High School.

I carried Devereux on my back after we reached the top of the stairs and sprinted through the athletic lot, across the bus lane, and into one of the entrances of the High School. Delta Company marines were occupying the halls, and they all cleared the path as we made our way down the hallway.

I kept right on going—up the stairs to the main lobby, through the hallways leading to the cafeteria, and outside. If the medical staff on the track had been busy before, they were about to get busy now. Alpha Company was bleeding heavily from that surprise attack, and the doctors would have to work extra hard to heal as much of us as they could.

One of the corpsmen who wasn't on stretcher detail took a quick look at Devereux, who still hadn't quite regained consciousness. He told me that she had a minor concussion—no doubt from hitting her head against the asphalt after that car rolled on her—and five broken ribs. He simply tossed me a can of biofoam and instructed me to make sure she kept drinking fluids. With wounds like that, that was all the overtaxed medics could do. There were far more severe wounds they had to treat that took precedence over broken ribs.

My mind finally started to slow down from the faster-than-light pace it had been racing at since the explosion. As I carried Devereux back towards the school, where Dempsey and Esposito were waiting, I started to realize just how much that explosion had cost us.

I don't know how many we lost in that explosion…probably twenty to forty marines. Sheila Pope, Tom Olsen, and Mike Clayton were all gone from my squad…reducing my squad down to nine marines out of the original fifteen. I didn't even want to know how many the platoon in general had lost.

Staff Sergeant Olbrecht was in command of 1st Platoon after Lieutenant Enders had been killed in the explosion. My platoon had lost Staff Sergeant Aimes, leaving his squad under the command of Sergeant Geoffries. Captain Howell was also out of the picture. He hadn't been killed, but reports were that he was very close to death. Recovery was slim for him at best. Lieutenant Wilkins, the company XO, had been killed as well.

For now, Alpha Company was in the hands of Lieutenant Hasegawa, who was now the most experienced officer in the company with Enders, Wilkins, and Captain Howell all out of the picture. McCandlish was good, but he was still new. The only other officer who would have been good for the job was Helen Nelson, McCandlish's predecessor, but the minor detail of her being dead made her unavailable for the job.

Hasegawa was the logical choice.

Adding further insult to injury, Gunny Harken—our senior company NCO—had also been killed. We had lost a good deal of our leadership in that damn explosion.

I regrouped my squad in the classroom where I had run across Lieutenant Wilkins on my way to the lower lot. Luckily, the Gauss cannon was still mounted in the window overlooking the bus lane and the hillside beyond. I looked down the hill, watching as Bravo Company disengaged and fell back across the bus lane and poured into the school directly below us.

I looked at my squadmates and did another quick headcount. I frowned, seeing that we were down to seven, not nine as I had originally thought. Then I remembered that I had forgotten to count our wounded—Lance Corporal Kwon's abdomen had been turned into a Human dartboard with those purple spikes, and Private Eastcroft had a severed femoral artery which needed immediate repair if he was to continue fighting, or even keep his leg.

The rest of us all sported wounds of a sort. I think it would be difficult to find a marine in all of town who hadn't gotten a scratch yet. We had only been fighting for twenty or so minutes, and we were already exhausted. That didn't matter, though. The Covies would keep on coming even if we were still in peak condition.

I set Devereux down in one of the student desks, pulling her canteen from her belt and unscrewing the cap, sending a steady stream of water down her throat. She gulped the water down and finally came around, forcing her eyes open with a muttered grunt.

She blinked once, glancing around the classroom, immediately deducing that she was no longer on the lower lot. "What…what happened…?"

I put her M90 shotgun in her hands. "No time for that, now," I said. "Take up a position by the door and keep out anything unfriendly."

She gave a silent nod and stood up, slowly making her way over to the door. I glanced at Banks and gestured for him to go with her; she was still disoriented, and I didn't want her out on her own in that state. She would come out of it in a few minutes, but it paid to be careful.

"The rest of you; get up against those windows!" I barked the order, hefting my BR55 and standing in front of one of the classroom windows. Esposito and Neyer took up the Gauss cannon, acting as a gunner/loader team.

Eventually, marines from Sergeant Geoffries's squad came into the classroom, augmenting our firepower with their own. This was helpful, because with Esposito and Neyer on the cannon, and Devereux and Banks on the door, that only left me and two others on the windows. Three marines' worth of firepower wasn't quite as effective as a full squads, but with the arrival of Geoffries's men, the balance slid a bit back towards normal.

I watched as the Elites reached the top of the athletic lot and started crossing the bus lane. That was when the entire face of the High School lit up, lead raining down on the Covies from every single window. This beat them back somewhat, but we all knew it was a temporary fix.

A mass of Covenant armor—wraiths, specters, and several other types of vehicles I didn't recognize—was making its way up the access road that ran from Millsboro Street to the bus lane. Not to mention that now we had banshees coming in hot from the west. This was about to get even hairier, but we all also knew that none of us could leave until the wounded and medical staff got evacuated from the High School track out back. If we fell back, they would be torn apart.

Even as I started replacing my mag, I knew something was wrong. The Covies were still holding back, as if they were just trading fire with us just for the sake of shooting their weapons. For a moment, I wondered if they would blow the school up, too…but the moment passed, as I realized that Colonel Ndebele would be actively scanning for activity belowground with the CP sensors.

Still…the Covies' behavior was still erratic, as if they still had another ace in the hole.

They _did_ still have another ace in the hole, as it turned out, and when I saw it I didn't even swear. My eyes just widened and my heart sank from my stomach to somewhere around my knees. A gigantic machine was making its way towards us. Because we were now at the top of the hill the school was built on, we could all see it. It was around twenty meters tall, thirty meters wide, fifty long…and it was shaped like an insect, comprising of a central chassis which the crew operated from held up by four robotic legs, which also provided the platform with its movement.

Dempsey and I had encountered them several times during the Harvest Campaign, and none of those times had exactly been pleasant experiences. Because of their insect-like appearance, we called them 'scarabs', and they were nasty pieces of work.

Normally, we could take them down with an armored regiment or with an artillery or air strike…only we no longer had any organized air forces left on Verus III, our artillery up north was neutralized, and what little armor we had in this miserable little town was spread out, supporting the fight on all fronts.

In short, we were fucked.

"Sarge!" one of the other marines was shouting to me, seeing that I was the highest-ranking NCO in the room. "Sarge, what are we supposed to do?"

The ground rattled as the scarab fired its forward cannon, sending a huge bolt of crackling green energy thundering into the hillside, tearing a gaping scar in the earth wherever it hit.

I had only one answer for the young private who had spoken to me. "Cross your fingers and pray, kid."


	22. II Chapter 22: Second Chances

Chapter Twenty-Two: Second Chances

**November 25, 2536 (Military Calendar) \  
Verus III, Alpha Tauris System**

Brave. Heroic. Fearless. Selfless.

For some reason, all I could think about was the ridiculous propaganda ONI Section II kept on spewing out about us marines, how we bravely stood our ground against insurmountable odds, how we gladly sacrificed ourselves for the good of our race, ya-da-ya…

This part of battle never made it into the propaganda. The part where a Covenant scarab shows up, and then the brave, heroic, fearless, selfless marines run their asses off for their lives. That probably wouldn't have done wonders for recruitment. But then again, if the unsuspecting youth of the UNSC knew the truth about this war, our armed forces' recruitment would dry up faster than a drop of water on a hot stove.

The survivors of my company had holed up with Delta Company in the Cedar Rapids High School while Bravo and Charlie secured the flanks. This was after the Covies had managed to tunnel under my company's position in the lower lot and blow a hole in our lines, driving us back to the school. Things had been tolerable until the Covenant brought in a scarab.

I had always known that this school was where the Covies would break through our defenses in the Westfall District, and the scarab had been the perfect weapon for the job. It raked the high school with its forward energy beam, forcing all of us to abandon our already-precarious positions as that scarab reduced the school to rubble, chunk by chunk.

All semblance of organization within my battalion had collapsed. It was about as close as we had ever come to every man for himself—marines were sprinting in groups down the streets leading back into the center of town. It was a completely chaotic retreat; even the officers were running away like the Devil was on their heels.

All the while, the mechanical sound of the scarab 'walking' got louder and louder behind us as it kept on advancing.

I had managed to stick with Dempsey and Devereux in the pandemonium, and we were pounding along the side streets that ran back into the center of town, ducking every time a plasma bolt slammed down somewhere nearby.

"We're fucked!" Dempsey was shouting every step of the way. "We're so _fucked!_"

"We're not fucked until we're dead, Demp!" I retorted. "And Force Recon grunts don't die!"

"A quarter of our company begs to differ," Dempsey grumbled under his breath.

I decided to ignore that last comment. I couldn't really blame my old friend; if ever there was a perfect time for rabid pessimism, it was right now. The only reason I wasn't openly agreeing with him was because I was a squad leader. We aren't supposed to talk like that.

A Japanese-accented voice was shouting orders in the middle of the street up ahead. I recognized the thin, wiry figure of Lieutenant Hasegawa, the acting Alpha Company CO. The El-Tee was pulling aside every marine who was only lightly wounded, letting the ones who had serious injuries go on by.

"Garris!" the El-Tee hollered, waving me over. "Give me a hand, here! Round up every piece of meat who can still hold a gun and run, and keep 'em from hightailing it all the way back to Division HQ!"

"What for; there's a goddamn scarab coming that way, if you haven't noticed!"

Hasegawa muttered something under his breath in Japanese, but quickly explained his actions. "The 121st is going after the scarab, but they need infantry support, which we can't provide if we're all running away!"

That was good enough for me. "You heard the Lieutenant! _Move!_"

Dempsey, Devereux, and I all fanned out and started pulling aside every able-bodied marine who was running down this street. There were two other sergeants doing the same thing, and after a minute or so we had a good-sized group of marines assembled. We had been at the fore of the retreat, so we were able to catch most of the other marines who had been behind us.

Lieutenant McCandlish and Lieutenant Maynard—a shavetail 2nd Lieutenant from 1st Platoon—had been gathering other grunts with NCOs on the adjoining streets. Within three minutes, we had a motley force of two hundred or so marines and officers from all four companies of the 9th Force Recon.

We then herded all of the marines onto one of the main avenues, where a contingent of M1-Delta dragons and M808B scorpions was rumbling down the road back the way we came, heading towards the Westfall District. Hasegawa quickly explained to us that our new job was to provide ground support for those tanks—there was a lot of shit between us and that scarab.

"Find the nearest senior NCO; he is now your squad leader!" Lieutenant Hasegawa was shouting after we had herded all of our impromptu force onto one of the main avenues.

There was a loud explosion at the other end of the avenue as a plasma bolt disintegrated a building that had fallen over the road. About a kilometer down, where the avenue ran through a residential area and the Westfall Park, where we could all see a formidable force of Elites advancing, supported by ghosts and a group of five wraith tanks. The scarab was looming in the background, drawing ever closer to our position.

"The grease monkeys need us, boys!" Hasegawa shouted, shouldering his MA5B. "Those tanks are going to counterattack and disable that scarab!" he gestured at the dragons rumbling by. "They're the only ones who can do the job, and they're going to need our help to keep the Covies off their asses! Follow me!"

And with that, the Lieutenant was off, running after the contingent of dragons. After a few moments' hesitation, the rest of us were hot on his heels, pounding down the asphalt after the tanks.

Hasegawa made the right choice by being the first to go after the tanks. Had he ordered us forward, I don't know if we would have actually gone. But he led the way, so the rest of us were perfectly willing to follow him. If a Lieutenant could do it, so could we.

I ran abreast of Lieutenant Hasegawa as we caught up with the tanks. "Sir, if you don't mind my asking; whose orders are we carrying out? Did Division send these tanks?"

Hasegawa shook his head. "I was stopped by Lieutenant Swell, the leader of Famine Contingent, during the retreat—_he_ ordered me to rally any nearby infantry, not Division."

"This is all you, then?" I gestured to the two hundred-plus marines jogging in step with the dragon tanks.

Hasegawa nodded. "None of the other company commanders came this way; just me. The Colonel is busy trying to reestablish some semblance of a line deeper in town…I'm all that's left out here."

"Well, I sure as hell hope you know what you're doing!" I shouted, diving behind one of the dragons as a crackling green fuel rod projectile sizzled by.

The marines slowed down with the tanks and fanned out, avoiding getting clumped up. That would be a recipe for disaster.

There was barely any organization to this assault. I didn't even know how the tanks were going to destroy that scarab…all I knew was that we had to keep the Covies from blowing them up.

I ignored the Elites; a BR55 wasn't much good against them unless their shields were down. I focused instead on the jackals. Their shields could be bypassed. It wasn't easy, but it was possible. Their shields all had a single weakness on the side, a chink in the shield's circular shape. If you could put a round through that spot, you get a wounded jackal. If you can quickly fire again while the shield is averted, you get a dead jackal.

Some of the marines in our impromptu company had taken to the adjacent rooftops, laying fire down on the Covies from above. That was the best we had in the way of supporting fire—heavy fifties weren't much use during an advance. The only heavy suppressing fire we had were the ball-mounted frontal turrets of the dragons and the scorpions' heavy machineguns. This was probably the first time I had ever _advanced_ on this planet since two months ago, during the beginning of the Covenant invasion. It had always been retreat, retreat, retreat. This was something new...and I liked it.

The woman next to me went down suddenly, a beam rifle shot searing through her chest. Two other marines dragged her off to safety, but I started hunting for that sniper.

It took a solid minute, but I finally pinpointed that sniper in one of the windows of the surrounding buildings. I didn't get to kill it, though—one of the marines on the rooftops above it chucked a frag down into the room that the sniper was in through a hole in the roof. I saw the explosion, as well as the jackal's arm, but that was it.

I shrugged—there would always be more snipers to kill.

The Elites had holed up in the alleyways further on ahead, but they did not advance into the path of our armor. I'll admit that Elites were probably the most fearless beings I've ever seen, but they weren't stupid. They hung back, keeping our heads down with sporadic bursts of plasmafire. The real trouble would be their ghosts and wraiths, which were hanging back as well. I guess they figured the scarab was going to make short work of us, then they could press through unmolested.

By then, we had come within range of the scarab, which was roasting parts of the town to our east. Lieutenant Swell, the leader of Famine Contingent, gave the order to open fire.

The roar of twenty-odd tanks firing their main cannons all at once was almost too much to bear. I instinctively stuck a finger in my ears just to make sure they weren't bleeding. If I was going to die in this town, I'd rather not go with burst eardrums. A man can only take so much, you know?

A brilliant carpet of explosions ballooned all over the scarab's armor. The Covenant superweapon was badly dented and lightly mangled in some places, but the overall damage was superficial. The armor was simply too strong, even for the heavier shells of the dragon tanks.

"_The leg, damn it all!_" Lieutenant Swell screamed over the COM from his scorpion. "_Aim for the goddamn leg! Reload!_"

Unfortunately, our presence was now known to the scarab. Its insect-like legs stepped around clockwise, turning it towards us. Its forward cannon glowed green, and then white as it warmed up. It then discharged a huge beam of roiling green energy.

A massive rend was torn into the street, and three tanks were gutted by the energy blast, along with eight marines. As if that weren't enough, plasmafire began to rain down on us in earnest as the mounted plasma turrets on the flanks of the scarab opened fire. The top-mounted plasma cannon also came to life, spewing large white-hot energy pulses at us. Most of the charges sank into the buildings, melting right through and pelting us with rubble and flying debris.

Grunts with plasma grenades started charging the tanks from the alleyways after they had opened fire. This was where we came in—the tanks couldn't afford to be distracted with problems on the ground, so we opened fire, tearing those grunts apart before they could get too close.

The tanks opened fire again, sending their payloads hurtling into the Covenant behemoth. This time, the explosions didn't cover the surface of its armor. Instead, there was a much more compact, much brighter conflagration hitting its front-left 'leg'. The armor on the leg wasn't weaker than the armor of the main chassis, but the leg itself was structurally more vulnerable.

I nodded approvingly as I saw the tanks aim for the leg—Lieutenant Swell must have fought on Harvest, because that was how we had taken scarabs down there when air support had been tied down. It was a costly maneuver, risking a unit of tanks like that, but when there was no other alternative it was a life-saver.

The leg was battered and mangled, but the internal structure still remained intact. The scarab returned fire with its forward cannon, gutting another two tanks. One of them was a dragon. As it exploded into flames, the top hatch was blown open and the tank commander leaped out, followed closely by his gunner and loader. The loader was already aflame like a torch, however—there would be no recovering from that. A nearby marine put the burning crewman out of his misery.

The COM was filled with chatter. Lieutenant Hasegawa was busy to the point of insanity, directing the NCOs and their marines to different parts of the street to avoid taking hits from the scarab while simultaneously making sure the Covie ground troops didn't get frisky with the tanks, which had now halted and were holding their position.

"_Keep at it, boys!_" Lieutenant Swell exclaimed over the COM. "_Try and go for the joints! We've almost got it!_"

The next time Famine Contingent opened fire, they got the job done. Shell after armor-piercing shell slammed into the 'leg' of the scarab, sending chunks of the purple alloy flying until finally, with a loud, groaning noise, as if the scarab could feel its leg being savaged, the metallic limb of the behemoth twisted out of shape and fell to the ground, its knee-like joint shattered.

The sudden loss of one of its supporting legs threw the scarab's weight fatally off-balance. Before it could compensate, its other legs seemed to lock up, and the entire thing just collapsed, keeling forward and falling flat on its belly. It fell right in the middle of the avenue, landing with a resounding crash. Buildings on either side of the street were instantly crushed under its immense weight. For a moment, as the dust and debris settled, the world was silent. Even the Elites had ceased fire for a moment.

The silence was then shattered by nearly two hundred marines cheering, shouting their jubilation to the heavens, myself among them.

"_Ho-lee shit!_" Dempsey was whooping, laughing like a madman. "They _wasted_ that fucker!"

For a moment, it looked as if the downed scarab was going to fire its forward cannon at us again. It had been taken down, but it hadn't been destroyed. The only way to completely destroy it was to do it from the inside…which was, to say the least, impossible right now.

The forward cannon never got the chance to fire, though. Lieutenant Swell—who had positioned his scorpion at the very front of the column—briefly took aim with his tank's main cannon and fired, sending an AP shell streaking through the air, tearing right through the plasma cannon's inner workings, causing the whole thing to explode in a ball of blue flame.

The scarab was now removed as an offensive threat, but it could still tear anything up that came too close, so Hasegawa and Swell ordered a full retreat.

"Time to get back to our lines before their bogeys come flyin' in," Lieutenant McCandlish murmured as we started moving back.

The next few hours were a blur. Hasegawa got everyone back to our lines with the tanks, letting all of the marines who had gone with us to return to their companies. Lieutenant Hasegawa had to spend a few minutes explaining to Colonel Ndebele why he did what he did. When the Colonel had learned that one of his acting company commanders had gone outside of orders, taken much-needed men from all four companies of the battalion, and gone right back into the Covie meatgrinder, he had nearly burst a vein.

Not that it mattered really. Hasegawa's actions in aiding Famine Contingent had helped bring down that scarab. And even if going outside of orders _did_ require some sort of punishment…well, we wouldn't exactly be alive for very much longer, so again; it really didn't matter.

We never got a solid line established after we lost the High School. We managed to rig up some small measure of defense around the core of Cedar Rapids, right around the center of town where General Lafayette was heading up things. Then the Covies strafed us with banshees nonstop for at least two hours. Our tanks were overwhelmed, pushed back to Division HQ.

As for us, the Covies brought in more wraiths and smashed what passed for our defensive line, pushing us all the way back to the shopping strip where tourists would usually congregate in peacetime conditions.

This was it. This was the end of the line—Division HQ lay barely a quarter of a kilometer behind us. My squad was holed up across the street from Devereux, Esposito, and me. Gunfire was everywhere as the rest of the marines in our battalion—now mingled with marines from the 506th and 327th Regiments—still tried to keep the Covies back. There were no organized units larger than squads or platoons, anymore. Everyone simply found something to hide behind and started shooting at the advancing Covies.

I became aware of more gunfire further on back, which struck me as odd, seeing as there was nothing in that direction but more Covenant. I gave a slight, apathetic shrug. Probably just a pocket of men who the Covies had overlooked. They would be silenced in a minute or so.

To tell the truth, I didn't know why we kept on fighting. There was obviously no point—the Covenant had been constricting and constricting their hold over us for the past couple of weeks, and now it had become a chokehold. We were being strangled, now.

I peeked my head out of the door of the boutique that my two squadmates and I were pinned down in, watching as a Covie wraith hovered down the street towards us, drawing closer and closer. It was taking its time; there was no reason for it to hurry.

Devereux and I covered Esposito during a lull in the Covenant firestorm. The Hispanic marine sprinted across the road, dodging plasmafire, reached the sidewalk, and dove into the pizzeria that the rest of my squad had huddled up in. The pizzeria had a back door which we could escape to Division HQ from. Sure, we would only be delaying the inevitable, but if we made it to Division HQ, we could fight alongside the tanks and probably hold out for another hour or so. This had become a battle of attrition—we knew we couldn't hold Cedar Rapids, so all we cared about now was body count. Kill as many Covies as we could.

Still…I wouldn't be able to get to Division HQ if I was still stuck on the wrong side of the street. The gunfire in this area had quieted down a bit—most of the other marines on this street seemed to have already pulled back. That wraith tank was moving unchallenged.

Not that we had anything to challenge it with. Rockets were a memory—we had used all of them up ages ago. We no longer had any ammo for the Gauss cannons, the tanks got slaughtered by banshees every time they stuck their noses out, and we had run out of LOTUS mines. Even grenades were pretty much gone. All we had left were small-arms bullets, which did absolutely nothing against the Covie tanks.

I was forced back into the boutique after an overcharged plasma shot melted part of the door frame, just missing my face. A constant stream of plasma started peppering the door, now. I swore under my breath, knowing that I would not make it through without getting fried.

"What now, Sarge?" Devereux asked me from where she was sitting, right below the large window next to the partially-melted entrance. A wan, tired grin was on her face, and her expression was one of resignation.

I relaxed my grip on my BR55, letting it fall to the floor. I reached up and, with completely steady hands, removed my helmet, running a hand through my ruddy-brown hair, which had grown longer than regulation in the months we had been out on the line. Getting military haircuts wasn't at the top of my priority list.

I sat down next to Devereux, holding my helmet in both hands. For a moment, I didn't say anything. I just listened to the constant sound of plasmafire outside the window above our heads, as well as the fainter sound of UNSC gunfire—which was _still_ coming from the wrong direction. I still thought nothing of it—if the rest of the 16th MEF had made a breakthrough, we'd have known it by now.

"I thought there was supposed to be some sense of calm acceptance right before the end," I murmured, staring at my helmet. "Or at least a feeling of peace…" I snorted, letting my helmet drop. "I don't feel anything different. I feel worse, in fact."

"You believe in life after death?" Devereux asked, sliding closer to me.

"Can't say that I do; I'm an Atheist," I shrugged again. "But if I'm wrong, I sure as hell won't complain. Spending eternity on a cloud, dressed in robes, plucking a golden harp, and spanking some hot angel ass doesn't sound so bad." That got a chuckle out of my not-so-old friend.

Devereux flinched as a bolt from the advancing wraith's plasma mortar crashed into the street just outside, sending bits of melted asphalt flying through the window. She started picking at a scab on her wrist absent-mindedly before speaking again. "What Dempsey and Miguel told me—is it true?" she asked next. "You saved me down at the lower lot?"

"It was more of a joint effort," I replied, unwilling to take credit for the whole thing. "Esposito and Demp helped get the car off of you—I just pulled you out."

"And carried me all the way to the aid station? And then all the way back to our post in the school?"

"Well…yeah, okay; that was me…" I conceded, a low chuckled escaping from my lips. "Can't exactly deny that one…" My voice trailed off and I found myself curiously tongue-tied. I rolled my eyes, yelling at myself on the inside. Even now, right before the world was going to end, I still couldn't have a full conversation with Devereux before clamming up.

I'm happy Dempsey kept that little secret about me on the down-low…who could respect a Staff Sergeant who couldn't bring himself to just talk to a female who he found attractive?

I didn't blame myself, though. Relationships are complex, tricky chess games, sometimes…people get their first tastes of them in school, then they experiment towards the end of high school and college…by the time they were my age, most people could handle a relationship with ease.

Not me. I went to school, funded by the state, until 8th Grade. When I was thirteen years old, I ran away from the orphanage and lived out the next three years of my life on the streets of Gladsheim. I then joined the Harvest Militia and watched as the Covenant arrived and burned my home, along with everything I had ever known or loved. After that, I turned seventeen and it was straight into boot camp at Needle Point on Reach…and it had been constant warfare since then.

When the fuck did _I_ ever have time to have a normal teenaged experience, huh?

_Never_, that's when. And when you're a squad leader out in this mud, responsible for a dozen other souls...you just couldn't afford to be have those feelings. You couldn't afford to be Human.

Another plasma bolt impacted, this time hitting the roof of the boutique. Our time was running very thin.

_Goddamnit, Alley; it's now or never!_

And then, all at once, my heart rate slowed down, my hands stopped trembling, and I found that I had regained my voice. Maybe it was something to do with the roof nearly caving it that made my subconscious realize that I really had nothing to be afraid of anymore.

"You…you know…" I started, clearing my throat and swallowing hard before continuing. Devereux looked at me, her clear green eyes staring into my own. My gut nearly heaved, but I kept myself in check and just kept on going before I could stop and think.

"Yes?" Devereux said quickly. For a moment, I wondered if she had always felt the same apprehension I had felt. After all, her experiences on New Constantinople couldn't have been pleasant—she still had yet to talk about them.

"I've never really loved anybody, you know," I murmured, ignoring the sound of the wraith approaching outside. "I never had a family, I never… I…well, what I mean by that is I've never known what it feels like, but this feeling I get when I look at—I mean, when I…well, when you're-"

I think it's good Devereux got what I was trying—and failing—to say because I may have just gone off babbling until the war ended. I shook my head and started over.

"You want to know something interesting?" I finally asked Devereux.

"What?"

"I'm a Staff Sergeant in the UNSC Marine Corps," I proclaimed. "I was there when the Covenant made first contact with us on Harvest. I made it through Needle Point with flying colors. I survived the Harvest Campaign—all five years of it. I've driven warthogs through legions of Elites, I've charged wraith tanks with LOTUS mines, I've been wounded five times… I've done all these things, all these deadly, gut-wrenching things just as easily as I would breathe or walk. They're second nature to me. And yet I don't have the balls to just say a few words and tell someone how I feel about her, PDA regulations be damned."

"Sounds like you're overthinking the whole thing," Devereux suggested, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "It's really not as complicated as you make it out to be."

I took a deep breath, getting my breath back from that long-winded speech of mine. God damn it all, what was I thinking going off on the handle like that? If I had been Devereux, I probably would have nodded off to sleep in the middle of the whole thing. And yet…

"You think I'm overthinking it?" I asked her.

"Personally?" Devereux arched a contemplating, teasing eyebrow. "Yes, I think you are."

I really don't know how old I am. Technically, I'm twenty-eight, but with all the slipspace travel in cryo I've done…I'd biologically be younger. That would probably explain why I felt like a goddamn teenager right now.

I pressed on, no longer caring how much of an ass I made of myself. The wraith's engines sounded like they were only a few meters down the road, now. I had to hurry it up.

"What if I told this person how I felt?" I asked next. "What if I did it now? Do you think it's a little too late?"

"If you keep on asking these ridiculous questions, it will _definitely_ be too late," Devereux chuckled, her French accent becoming more pronounced with amusement.

And so, I finally told her everything. I told her about how I couldn't stop thinking about her since the moment I saw her arrive into our squad three weeks ago. Or rather, I _tried_ to tell her. I only got out a few words before I realized that I was trying to speak into her mouth.

I instantly shut down all power to my vocal cords and reciprocated, kissing her back. I don't know how long it lasted, but _boy,_ oh boy…if I was going to die right then and there, I honestly couldn't care less. Nothing existed beyond the two of us at that moment.

Devereux pulled away and rested back on the wall, her eyes closed for a moment. She then pulled her helmet on and grabbed her M90 shotgun, giving me a look that was as hard as titanium-A armor. "What say we go out with a bang, eh?"

I couldn't agree more. I wasn't going to die cowering in a fucking _beauty parlor,_ of all places. No way. Not a chance.

I put my helmet back on and hefted my BR55, flicking it to full automatic firing mode. I got to my feet and extended a hand to Devereux. "You ready?" I asked, giving a weary smile.

"Always have been, always will be," Devereux took my hand, pulling herself up. We locked eyes, knowing that we were about to die. Our lips brushed once more in another quick kiss. Why not? Nothing wrong with getting seconds before dessert—dessert, in this case, being death.

The two of us turned and started to charge right for the door…when the wraith outside suddenly exploded.

It had been facing right at us, lining up its mortar so that it could sink a plasma charge right through the open window, vaporizing anything that would have been inside, which would have been _us_. Only, it never got the chance.

Devereux and I watched, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, as the wraith tank was suddenly disemboweled by a crackling red laser. The only indicator of what was about to happen had been a thin, nigh-invisible beam of blinking red light shining onto the wraith's hull, which suddenly intensified into the beam of destruction that rooted Devereux and I to the spot.

The wraith tank hovered in place momentarily, a gaping hole seared right through its hull, before it fell to the asphalt and exploded.

"_Merde_…" Devereux swore under her breath. "_Quel l'enfer était qui_…_?_" she murmured, not even realizing until a second later that she had been speaking French. She quickly switched back to English. "What the hell was that?"

"Spartan laser…" I whispered. I only knew the answer because I had seen that weapon in action during the Harvest campaign. It was given the unofficial name 'spartan laser' because its weight and size made it hard to use for us normal grunts.

That was when we saw them. There were four of them; four ghostly shades flitting through the street, obscured by their speed and by the dust cloud that had settled over the center of town. I realized that the gunfire I had been hearing had been coming from _them_.

These four silhouettes slid through the evening shadows. The howls of dying Elites echoed up and down the street, mixed with the sounds of breaking bones, dull impacts, and bodies hitting the asphalt. One by one, the energy swords we could see through the dust winked out, their users no longer in any state to wield them.

Standing at nearly seven feet tall, completely encased in dull, olive-green armor, these four figures stepped into the light, having single-handedly eradicated all the Covies on this street. Behind them I could recognize the familiar hum of warthog engines. They hadn't come alone.

I had encountered them on Harvest, too. Probably not these exact people, but others like them. They were near-mythical within the Corps—not many of the people who I talked to about the Harvest Campaign believed me when I told them that I had actually seen these…_things_.

And now, here I was, looking at them once more with my own two eyes. For some odd reason, I felt something that I had never felt since I had been a little boy. Despite having been surrounded by the Covies for days and weeks on end, despite have already grudgingly accepted my own death only seconds ago…I felt _safe_.

The Spartans had arrived.


	23. II Chapter 23: Helljumper in Distress

Chapter Twenty-Three: Helljumper in Distress

**November 29, 2536 (Military Calendar) \  
Verus III, Alpha Tauris System**

I don't think hot food ever tasted so good to me before. After a couple weeks of nothing but cold C-rations, the hot slop at Battalion Mess had tasted like the nectar and ambrosia of the Gods themselves. Okay, maybe not _that_ good…but a lot better than the shit we'd been stuck with.

And the fact that we were alive to eat it at all was just another in a long string of reality-shattering surprises. I should be dead, right now, along with the rest of my battalion and two other regiments in my division. The only reason we _weren't_ pushing up daisies right now was because of the Spartans, though none of us would ever admit that. From what were hearing, a team of the legendary SPARTAN-II supersoldiers had spearheaded a counterattack with the 118th Division that had temporarily opened a corridor to Cedar Rapids, allowing General Lafayette to get all of us out before the Covenant pulled themselves together.

Cedar Rapids was nothing more than a memory, now. After we bugged out, the Covenant flowed in like water into a sink, burning the town to the ground.

No matter; those of us who had been trapped in Cedar Rapids were reabsorbed into the 16th MEF's line. We were currently occupying the mouth of Route 115, the highway that ran north through the Caledonian Mountains, which formed the northernmost region of the Illen landmass.

It was snowing regularly this far north, contributing to the mountainscape. My unit was stationed here along with the two or three other force recon battalions. Our job would be to hold down the fort while the rest of the expeditionary force funneled itself onto Route 115. It didn't matter that my battalion had just been a whisper away from destruction several days before; we were force recon. It was our job.

There was always a steady stream of marines marching by on Route 115. The road itself ran through the mountains, always remaining down in the valleys—it never climbed up the mountains themselves. That worked to our advantage; my battalion set up on one of the outermost mountains overlooking the start of Route 115. Eventually, the road would lead to Wiltshire, the region beyond the mountains where the evacuation into orbit was taking place.

The expeditionary force was falling back piece by piece. Route 115 was a large enough road, as well as completely deserted, so entire regiments were able to retreat at a time. So far, one of the expeditionary force's divisions was on the road to Wiltshire, and a good part of a second was on its way.

I yawned, lazily polishing my BR55 as I watched my comrades from the other divisions retreat down the highway. Pelican dropships were making regular trips here and back to Wiltshire, taking wounded marines to the evac zone. The hums of their engines added to the usual background din.

The past few days had been very hectic ones. Today was the first day my battalion had fully regrouped and settled into our lines. In my entire company, Corporal 'Lucky Larry' Eldridge was the only of us who had come out of Cedar Rapids without a wound. All the rest of us had been hit at least once, so we had all been in and out of the field hospitals that were scattered throughout the mountains. By now, most of us whose wounds had been minor were all patched up and ready for the fight once more.

Thankfully, our rear-guard position wouldn't come under fire until the rest of the expeditionary force was retreating up Route 115. Of course, the flipside was that the pressure-cooker would be turned up to red-hot on us, because we had to hold the Covies back—or at least slow them down—long enough for the rest of the 16th to get evacuated into orbit. Then we would be picked up by our air wing, provided everything went to plan.

Until then…

My battalion was occupying the hill on one side of the main road. At the top of the hill were our snipers and a team of artillery observers. Further on down was Charlie Company, which was responsible for the fifty-cal gun emplacements, as well as the Gauss cannons General Lafayette's quartermasters had issued us.

My company was situated in the center of the system of trenches and foxholes that had been dug into the hillside overlooking Route 115. There were sheer rock faces beyond our flank, so the Covenant would be hard-pressed to hook around us. This road was the one viable way through the Caledonian Mountains—getting through the mountains by hoofing it overland would have been nigh-impossible. That was why the top brass had only the force recon battalions guarding the road; stationing additional troops further out was unnecessary.

If the Covies could get their soldiers through the mountains, the retreating column could deal with them. The important thing was that it would be impossible for them to get their armor through. They would also be hard-pressed to get their phantom or spirit dropships in, either—our artillery had set up numerous concealed SAM sites throughout the mountaintops, each one manned by a team of artillerists. They would be able to knock any unfriendlies out of the skies, for a time. The key to this last leg of the retreat would be speed. If we got bogged down, if we took to long to get to Wiltshire…not all of us would make it off Verus III alive.

"Rough day," Dempsey said to me as he slid down the hillside and into the trench—which was little more than a shallow ditch.

"We've had rougher," I shrugged.

"That we have…" Dempsey agreed. "I just got out of the aid station; Esposito and Devereux should be right behind me."

"So, anything new with us? We getting any replacements for the grunts we lost at that damn school?"

"Nope," Dempsey shook his head. "We're standing down on New Harmony after we get off this shithole; our replacements will be waiting for us there. We'll get a new Gunny there, too, to replace Harken. We've gotten a few promotions, too, but nothing major. The Colonel bumped Geoffries up to Staff Sergeant and gave him Aimes's squad."

"What about Hasegawa? Is he-"

"_Mm-hm,_" Dempsey nodded again. "The Colonel secured approval for a battlefield promotion from Division and made Hasegawa a Captain. He's our official company CO, now. Captain Howell's hanging in there—they got him up to the Naval surgeons in orbit—but he won't be back on the line for a long time. Hell, when he gets better, he'll probably make Major and get a battalion someplace else. That's how it usually works for officers like him."

Esposito and Devereux showed up a few minutes later. I traded smiles and nods with Devereux. We were in a complicated spot, now. There were no more concealed feelings, no more beating around the bush...both of us knew how the other felt. Sure, it had been easy to profess my feelings for her right when we were about to die...but now that we were both still alive... We would have to keep our affairs secret from the officers. Inter-personnel relationships were not strictly forbidden...but they were frowned upon, putting it lightly. I didn't want Devereux getting transferred on my account.

With Esposito and Devereux's arrival, my squad was now complete. Once upon a time, back when Macintyre was still the head honcho, our squad had had roundabouts fifteen marines. Now, we only had seven. Technically we had nine, but Kwon and Eastcroft were still recovering from their wounds sustained from the battle at the Cedar Rapids High School.

I also realized that Banks, Esposito, Dempsey, and I were the only ones from this squad who had been here for the original Covenant invasion. All the other members—including Devereux—were replacements or late add-ons. Most other marines—who were usually around the ages of eighteen to twenty-one—were already referring to me and Dempsey as old-timers.

_Old-timer_…I'm not even thirty yet. Dempsey was only thirty-four. But I could still level with them, in a way. Dempsey and I were the only ones in our squad—hell, the only ones in our entire _battalion_—who had fought on Harvest…and of all the marines who fought on Harvest, Dempsey and I were part of only a handful who had been there for the First Contact. If I survived this War, I would probably be one of the oldest, if not _the_ oldest, veterans; oldest referring to time spent in the war, not age. That would be pretty good for publicity.

"_Garris! Staff Sergeant Garris!_"

I looked up to see Corporal Banks headed our way from the direction of the battalion aid station. "What?" I asked.

Banks, red-faced from running the whole way, slid down into our trench, setting his MA5B off to a side. "The Colonel wants to see you, Sarge," he said to me. "Don't ask why; he just told me to send you back to the aid station."

I yawned again, reaching over for my BR55. "Now?" I sighed, stretching out my arms and legs.

"Now."

"Alrighty, then…" I climbed to my feet, dusting myself off. "I'll be back, ladies. Try not to get yourselves killed, or I'll be out of a job."

The run to the aid station took me five minutes—it was set up close enough to the line so that the wounded could get transported there relatively quickly, but it was also far enough back so that it was spared the plasmafire of the attacking Covies.

When I got there, I was surprised to find a gathering of forty or so marines off to the side, headed up by Colonel Ndebele. Lieutenant McCandlish was also present, along with five or six others from Alpha Company. The rest were all from the other companies of the 9th Force Recon, and just as well; there weren't as many Alpha Company marines to go around, anymore.

I could tell that I was a late addition, because everyone else already seemed like they were ready to go someplace. Heads turned at my arrival for a second, and then turned back. I wasn't a special sight.

"Marines!" Colonel Ndebele barked, getting everyone's attention. The murmuring quieted down to nothing. "Our job here isn't finished. Verus III may be finished, but _we_ aren't! What is the one thing we never, _ever_ do on a battlefield?"

"_Leave a man behind,_" all of us immediately answered. It was one of those first, basic lessons the DIs had pounded and beaten into us during boot camp. 'Never leave a man behind'. Or woman, if you want to get technical. Sure, it made our lives a little bit difficult during retreats…but the thought of leaving a comrade behind to the Covenant was a repulsive one. Covies don't take prisoners, but they don't always kill them quickly, either.

"That's right," the Colonel nodded. "Never leave a man behind. And we will not. I've just been informed by General Strauss, our Expeditionary Force Commander, that there is a team of ODSTs caught twelve klicks southwest of New Worcester. Now I know Helljumpers always love to spout off about saving _our_ pansy asses time after time…well now it seems the shoe is on the other foot!"

Snickers and murmuring chuckles rose up from our motley group. Sure, we were on the same side as the ODSTs…but for as long as anyone could remember, there had always been some measure of not-quite-friendly animosity between different branches of the military. The rivalry between marines and ODSTs was nothing compared to the one between us and the Navy, though. Jarheads and Swabbies never got along very well_._

"Thought you all would get a kick out of that," the Zulu grinned. "Now, I understand that I am putting you all in harm's way when, by all rights, we should be safely retreating. That being said, I am going to lead you men personally. Let it never be said that I would ever send you men into a danger I myself was unwilling to face. Lieutenant McCandlish has volunteered to act as my number two."

At first I was puzzled as to why a Lieutenant would be a direct subordinate of the Colonel, but it made sense after I thought about it. The Colonel had not allowed any of his company commanders to volunteer, a fact I learned later on, so as to preserve what remained of the battalion's command structure. Too many good officers—especially in my company—were no longer with us.

"Our mission is simple; we're going in under cover of night, extracting these ODSTs, then returning back to a pre-determined LZ and getting the hell out."

"If I may ask, sir," one of the other marines ventured, "What the hell are UNSC personnel doing so far behind enemy lines? New Worcester isn't exactly a short stroll away."

"Assassination," was all Colonel Ndebele said in reply. "Staff Sergeant Garris-" the Colonel nodded towards me, "will be serving as contingent sharpshooter. Don't piss this guy off; it's _your_ asses that will be in his sights."

"Do I get a sniper rifle?" I asked, the foolish hope clearly evident in my voice.

"In your dreams," the Colonel replied.

"Why aren't the Spartans doing this?" another marine piped up. "Mission like this seems right up their alley."

"The Spartans are busy with something else," the Colonel answered. "Anymore questions? Good. Fall out and report to the pelicans."

* * *

The pelican ride was bumpy, to say the least. We were moving at the dropship's fastest possible speed—several times the speed of sound—as we penetrated through the Covenant air defenses. It was nighttime and our pelican's engines had been tinkered with to reduce their outward volume. It wasn't much…but it was still something. Once or twice we had a brush with Covie fliers, but we had good pilots.

I slotted the scope of my BR55 back into its groove, continuing to polish my weapon as I waited semi-patiently for the pelican to land. I gazed at my rifle with something probably resembling affection. It was the same rifle I had used back on Harvest all those years ago. Originally it had belonged to Gunnery Sergeant Byrne—he had been a Staff Sergeant back then—but I had taken it from him after a Brute beat the living shit out of him during the skirmish at the reactor complex. It had survived the Harvest Campaign with me, and I wasn't quite ready to part with it for a newer model, yet.

After the Harvest Campaign, BR55 battle rifles finally got somewhat distributed to the common rank and file. MA5 assault rifles were still much more common, but BR55s weren't exactly rare sights anymore. My rifle was one of the early prototypes of the BR55 model, and I made sure it received the necessary upgrades to keep it up to date…but there were some aspects about the prototype that I wanted to keep, such as the nonexistent recoil.

And yet, despite whatever attachments I felt towards my weapon, I wanted a sniper rifle. Almost how I always wanted to use a BR55 back when I was stuck with an M6J carbine, I now wanted the chance to use the SRS99B-S2 AM sniper rifle. I had trained extensively with one of those suckers during my time at Needle Point, and I nearly got the chance to go through ODST training on the infamous Rock so that I could be a fully-fledged Spec Ops sniper.

The key word in that particular part of my life story was _nearly_. I was denied the chance of training to be part of a Helljumper sniper team because I had been part of the Harvest militia. During the Harvest Campaign, I was used as an intel source on the Covies, seeing as I was one of the handful of men in the UNSC who had experience fighting them at that time. I was a valuable asset to my fellow marines on the ground, so I was sent into a regular infantry unit along with Dempsey. After all, I wasn't much use behind the scope of a sniper rifle several hundred yards behind the advance.

Time after time I tried to join the ODSTs after the Harvest Campaign, and time after time I was rejected. I was a veteran noncom in the 9th Force Recon; I was valuable where I already was, so Division kept on blocking me. Maybe one day I'd get lucky…

Ah well. Until that happened, I was stuck here. Might as well pass the time by saving a few ODSTs.

"If you polish that thing one more time, I might just have to eat off it," Lieutenant McCandlish grunted. The El-Tee was going to be commanding the reserve contingent of our little rescue force. I would be serving as the Colonel's sharpshooter, so I would not be fighting with the Lieutenant. Or, I would _hopefully_ not be fighting with the Lieutenant—if McCandlish ended up in a fight, that would mean we needed to call in our reserves…which shouldn't have to happen. Fingers crossed.

"I wouldn't advise that, sir," I replied, wiping my rag down the length of the barrel before stuffing it away.

"So, give it to me straight, Staff Sergeant," McCandlish said to me next. The way the officer was speaking was surprising; it lacked the formal, emotionless veneer most officers possessed. Maybe the Manchester accent helped him there, but it sounded as if he was talking to me like I was a fellow human being, not a piece of meat who ranked lower on the totem pole of the chain of command. "I know what enlisted marines think of lieutenants. How big of a wanker am I, eh?"

"Frankly, sir, if you were a bad lieutenant, you wouldn't be talking to me right now," I said to my platoon leader. "Bad lieutenants in a command position have a habit of dying rather quickly."

"Oh?" McCandlish's eyebrows arched. "Fragging, you mean?"

I shrugged, not willing to go any further than that. "I'm just saying…shit happens out here." And I was right; shit _did_ happen out here…sometimes it happened a little more deliberately. I had never personally fragged an officer before, nor had it ever happened in any unit I was a part of…but I had always heard stories of platoon lieutenants who wound up dead or wounded from 'accidental' grenade explosions, or stray rounds.

"Well, if someone decides to roll a nade into my foxhole at night, do give me a few hours' warning, would you?"

"I don't think you need to worry about that, sir," I chuckled. "Most bad lieutenants usually die straight off from the enemy. Basically the same as unlucky privates-"

I didn't get to finish my end of the conversation, because at that moment one of the pilots leaned around and hollered back, "Passing through New Worcester airspace now! Touchdown in two!"

"_Gear up!_" Lieutenant McCandlish barked to me and the other ten or so marines in the troop bay.

The pelican shuddered as it descended rapidly towards the ground. I knew that the terrain around New Worcester was rocky and hilly—not exactly steep enough to be considered 'mountainous'…but pretty close.

The pelican landed in a clearing down in a cleft between two of the tallest ridges in the area. Spurred on by McCandlish, all of us rose as one and hopped out of the blood tray and onto the soft earth below. Once Private Vicks, the last grunt in line, jumped out, McCandlish followed him and signaled back to the pilot.

Three other pelicans had made landfall nearby. Once their sticks of marines disembarked, they rose back up into the sky and vanished into the night. Luckily, there was a good deal of cloud cover, so there was no chance of any Covies spotting the pelican from the ground without sophisticated sensors.

"Lieutenant McCandlish!" Colonel Ndebele called over to the El-Tee. "Take our two heavy fifties and establish a defensive perimeter around this LZ. This is our way out; I don't want any surprises waiting for me when I return."

"Understood," McCandlish nodded.

"Winston, Dubois, Kendall, Garris, Wu; you're with me," the Colonel motioned to me and several others. Looks like we were the lucky group of grunts who got to make contact with our Helljumpers in distress.

I joined the Colonel along with the other four marines he had called.

"We will be proceeding to the agreed rendezvous point with the Helljumpers," Ndebele said to us as we congregated off to the side, allowing McCandlish to whip the other thirty-odd marines into shape. "Their original position was about three klicks away, two ridges over, right on the perimeter of the Covenant dig site. Overlooking it, actually. Their last transmission, which was an hour and a half ago, reported having one seriously wounded trooper and that their position was being overrun."

"So we could be on clean-up detail just as easily as rescue?" Kendall, one of the younger marines in our little group, spoke up.

"That's certainly a possibility," the Colonel replied, but he didn't sound very worried. "But I doubt it. They're Helljumpers."

We got moving without anymore delay, slipping off into the night. The Colonel had provided all of us with night-vision headgear, but I had refused. Instead of the bulky goggles, I pulled down my HUD eyepiece and switched it to infrared. I did likewise with the scope of my BR55.

The other marines, all of whom wielded suppressed MA5B assault rifles—with the exception of the Colonel, who carried an M7 caseless sub-machinegun—had mounted infrared lasers onto their weapons. They were invisible to the naked eye, but appeared as bright green lines when looked at with infrared imaging, which night-vision goggles possessed. Aiming down the sights of a rifle was hard to do with night-vision goggles, so the laser sights did the job for them. During the daytime, they would go back to using the ironsights, as the only way to see the lasersights was with the night-vision goggles…which wasn't a good idea in full daylight.

I didn't use lasersights because my battle rifle's scope already had the infrared imaging enabled, rendering a laser redundant. It would be like putting knee and elbow pads onto MJOLNIR armor.

"Keep it quiet from here on out; no unnecessary chatter," the Colonel ordered us. "Report all movement and watch your footing…"

We made our way through the woods, heading up the side of the ridge to our immediate north. It was a little strenuous getting to the top—had there been a hiking trail going up this incline, it would have been composed mostly of switchbacks. We had to hoof it straight up.

It must have rained recently, because the ground was wet and soggy underfoot. While normally this would have elicited a good deal of complaint from me, I was actually grateful for it right now. There was still a good amount of dead leaves left on the ground from the autumn—now that they were wet, they didn't make nearly as much noise when stepped on as they normally would have, had they been dry and crackly.

All we had to do was watch out for fallen sticks, which could snap if stepped on. As long as we kept clear of those, we were actually moving pretty damn quiet.

We didn't run into any trouble until we made it down into the valley in between the ridge we had just climbed and the one which the ODSTs had been positioned on. The valley itself was around two kilometers wide. There was a small road that ran through it somewhere towards the center, along with a few streams. There were also a few open meadows. The rest of the land was moderate forest.

"_Shh,_" one of the marines—Dubois, I think his name was—hissed. "_Movement at two o'clock_."

As one, all of us slowed down to a crawl, swiveling our weapons over to the right, in the direction Dubois had indicated.

Wu started to speak. "_I don't see anything-_"

"_Quiet!_" the Colonel whispered. "Optics don't lie. Keep an eye out."

I tightened my grip on my rifle, instinctively bringing it up to eye level.

The particle beam snapped seemingly out of nowhere. It grazed PFC Winston on the side of his helmet—the only reason Winston was still alive was because he had stumbled on a rock the moment the shot rang out.

"Sniper!" someone hollered. I rolled my eyes; _no shit_ there was a sniper.

I instantly snapped my rifle over to the tree where the shot had come from. Sure enough, a jackal was perched in the branches, clutching a beam rifle in its knobby hands. It seemed to notice me just as I squeezed the trigger, giving out a startled croak right before my burst blew its head off.

"Scratch one buzzard," I murmured as I watched the headless jackal keel over and tumble down the length of the tree, thudding into the dirt. "Excuse me for a second, sir," I said to the Colonel. I lowered my rifle and made my way through the underbrush to the place where the jackal had fallen.

"_Garris, get your ass back here!_" Colonel Ndebele whisper-shouted over the SQUADCOM.

"_Sir, I'm detecting multiple contacts coming down on us from the west,_" Dubois said over the COM, who had spotted the jackal sniper, reported.

Ndebele swore. "_They must have heard the sniper shot,_" the Zulu deduced. "_Garris, if you're not back here by the time I finish this transmission, I will bust you so low that you'll be saying 'Yes, sir' to the cooks!_"

I quickly got what I had come for; the jackal's beam rifle. Maybe I wouldn't be getting a sniper rifle for this small little vacation, so the Covie equivalent would have to do. After all, how different could it be from the SRS99B? All you had to do was aim and shoot…sure, I couldn't fine-tune it like I could with UNSC sniper rifles, but I wasn't exactly planning on making any mile-distant shots, either.

I hurried back to our position, huddling down into a particularly large bush, along with Colonel Ndebele and Corporal Wu. The Colonel held a finger up to his lips for silence, pointing with two fingers to the left of and slightly behind the direction we had been heading.

Dubois had been right. I could spot a group of eight or so grunts, two jackal flankers with activated shields, and a blue-armored Elite Minor making their way through the trees towards the place where the jackal sniper had been. They obviously knew what the sniper's position had been—maybe they had even been in communication with it when I had taken off its head.

It didn't matter, either way. The fact of the matter was that they knew something was wrong with the sniper, so they were coming to investigate. Once they discovered the jackal's corpse, they would know that Humans were in the area, and they would bring reinforcements.

We had to prevent word from getting around about us…and asking the Covies nicely wouldn't work. Bullets, in this case, were the answer. Bullets and grenades.

The Colonel made the sign for 'grenade'—holding his two fists together, and then pulling them apart—and pointed towards the Elite. This was smart; there was no guarantee that our grenades would take the Elite down, but it was a certainty that the blasts _would_ at least take out its shields. Yes, the blasts of the grenades would probably alert any other Covies in the area…but engaging an Elite with only small-arms fire would result in at least one or two of us getting killed.

The Colonel didn't give the order to open fire until the Covie patrol was almost on top of us. When the leading grunt was about to step on Private Kendall, the Colonel gave Wu and I a sharp nod.

The three of us pulled the pins of the frag grenades we were holding and hurled them into the trees, aiming for the Elite. The nades went off with three quick, successive booms, sending dirt and wood splinters flying. Three grunts were shredded, and—just as we had planned—the Elite's shields were drained.

The Elite had time only to spread its mandibles wide in a vengeful roar before I sank six rounds into its skull.

The grunts milled about in confusion at first, due to the loss of their Elite leader. That cost them; everyone else opened fire with their rifles as the Elite fell. The grunts toppled like tenpins, their luminescent blue blood spattering the ground.

One of the jackals leaped back and hunkered down behind its shield. It clutched a plasma pistol in one hand, firing small green specks of plasma at my bush. As the little globs of energy sizzled away at the leaves, I aimed at the chink in the jackal's shield and fired. The jackal leaped to the side, catching my bullets on the full of its shield. Its shield flashed white as my bullets slammed into it, but it held strong.

One of the first things you learn to do as a sharpshooter is to follow through with your shots. That is, when you fire off a shot at a target, you don't immediately drop your aim. Instead, you keep on aiming right at the target after you hit it. This way, if you miss you can simply squeeze off an immediate secondary burst because you're still aiming at the target.

That's why I was able to take the jackal down even though I missed my first shot. I simply nudged my aim over to the right a tad bit and this time I managed to sink a burst through the chink in the shield, catching the jackal right in the side. The lizard-like Covie dropped its shield, holding its wounded side in pain. I blew its now-exposed head off with a third burst. "Scratch two buzzards," I reported the kill.

That emptied my battle rifle. I ejected the empty mag and slapped a fresh one in, pulling the priming bolt into place. There wasn't anything else for me to shoot, though; the other marines had already finished off the grunts.

"Garris, we have a runner at eleven o'clock!" the Colonel hollered over to me.

The second jackal was sprinting away back the way it had come, presumably trying to find the nearest Covie patrol to alert them of out presence. That was unacceptable. It had broken ranks and run away the moment the first frag went ka-boom, so it was a good thousand meters distant. That was at the very extreme range of the BR55...so I decided to play it a little dangerously and unslung the beam rifle from my shoulder.

I got a firm grip on the alien contours of the beam rifle, shouldering it, closing my one eye and peering through the alien weapon's scope with my other. The sights for this thing weren't too different from the SRS99B; the targeting reticule was in the shape of a corcle rather than the standard plus-shaped crosshairs of a sniper rifle...but the difference had no impact on my accuracy.

I discovered quickly that there was a zoom function on the scope, and I activated it, grinning as the image of the fleeing jackal grew three times bigger. I dropped to a firing stance, resting my elbow on my knee and bringing down my breathing rate. I edged the targeting reticule onto the back of jackal's head and, once I was ready to fire, held my breath. There was nothing making my aim dance around with my breathing temporarily arrested, so I squeezed the Covie equivalent of a trigger.

The shot was beautiful. There was absolutely no kickback as a harsh bluish-white particle beam seared through the air and punched cleanly through the jackal's skull. The Covie flopped forward, crumpling to the ground in a heap of splayed limbs. "Scratch three buzzards," I grinned.

"Let's hurry it up," the Colonel spurred us on. "If there were any other patrols nearby, they will have heard the grenade blasts."

Corporal Wu shrugged. "We got bullets enough for the lot of them. Let 'em come."

"We do, but the Helljumpers don't," I reminded him.

As we all got back up to our feet and started moving through the brush, I could almost hear the Colonel murmuring, "_God, I've missed this_…" under his breath.

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_Apologies for the delay in getting this one up. I've been visiting colleges this past week—that time of year, again—so I haven't been able to devote as much time to writing as usual. But I'm back home, now, so things should go back to normal!_

_-TheAmateur_


	24. II Chapter 24: Weekend Sniper

Chapter Twenty-Four: Weekend Sniper

**November 30, 2536 (Military Calendar) \  
Verus III, Alpha Tauris System**

We didn't run into anymore Covie patrols in the valley. They were definitely there, but we didn't stumble across any of them. Just as well—the less of a footprint we made in this area, the better. We didn't need Covies scouring the area for us before we were safely tucked away on our pelicans.

We had been gradually making our way up the second ridge towards our rendezvous point with the ODSTs who had been lost up here. If they were still alive, they would be there. If not…

When you are on a rescue mission, there are a good many things you could expect to happen. You always expect to run into resistance of some sort along the way, as well as other sorts of delays and complications that make the op a little short of 'painless'. You could find the people you were trying to rescue in extremely bad shape, they could be dead…or you could never find them at all.

One thing you _never_ expect to happen is to nearly get blown up by the very people you were trying to save.

I don't know who stepped on the tripwire, but we all heard the all-too-familiar _twang_ of the wire getting dislodged. All of the marines—myself included—who were accompanying the Colonel were seasoned veterans, having participated in this entire campaign, as well as at least one or two campaigns before Verus III. I was the only one who had fought on Harvest, but the others had fought on several other UNSC worlds which had been attacked during those five years.

Years and years of experience saved us. The moment we heard the tripwire, we all hurled ourselves back, flattening ourselves into the ground. And not a moment too soon—Antilon anti-personnel mines sprang up from the brush and detonated at waist-height. A marine who had been in the field for only a short time would have died where he or she stood, but veterans like us who had been fighting for upwards of a decade…evading mines was child's play. We were just lucky that these Antilon mines had been rigged to blow at waist-height—had they blown up from the ground, we would have lost a few people. I probably would have lost a leg.

The explosions jarred me to the core, sending my ears into a far-away place where everything was a loud, head-splitting ringing noise.

"_Ahh-_" I groaned, pulling off my helmet and clutching my head. My right ear felt funny, and when I touched it my hand came away bloody. My eardrum must have gone ka-blooey. Wonderful; that meant needing reconstructive surgery to fix the damn thing...

I heard distant shouting. It probably wasn't all that distant; I just couldn't hear it properly. My left ear was starting to return to normal, but the world still sounded fuzzy.

I felt a boot press into my shoulder and roll me over onto my back. When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to find myself staring down the barrel of an M6D magnum. In the darkness, I couldn't see who was wielding it.

My adrenaline was running high from the explosions, and opening my eyes to the sight of a silenced magnum in my face just sent me into overdrive. I don't really remember what happened next. I remember shouting something unintelligible, lashing out with my feet, and making a grab for the magnum. Next thing I knew, I was pinning my assailant to the dirt with one knee, holding the magnum into his face.

Well, more into his visor than his face; when my eyes readjusted, I noticed that he was clad entirely in black armor, completed by a black helmet with a silver-blue tinted faceplate. It registered somewhere in the depths of my mind that this man was an ODST, but I had just nearly been blown up and shot, so I wasn't being exactly rational at the moment.

"_Down on the ground, motherfucker!_" I was shouting over and over again. What can I say; I don't react well to having pistols shoved in my face.

The man on the ground was shouting something, holding his hands up, but it was incomprehensible to me. I was angry, now; my ear had died and gone to Hell and this asshole was responsible for that.

"_Garris! _Garris!" I could hear the Colonel shouting. A firm grip grasped my shoulder and jerked me up and off of the downed ODST. "_Stand down, Staff Sergeant!_"

It was almost as if I had gotten cold water splashed in my face. I shook my head, staggering back a couple of steps as I regained control of my mind, forcing the animal back down. "What…what…?"

"Ye nearly broke me feckin' ribs, _that's_ what," the ODST who I had pinned snapped, rolling over onto his side. He was around my height and spoke with a heavy Irish accent, much heavier than Nolan Byrne's had been.

"Well you assholes nearly got us blown up!" I shouted back, not about to take any shit from someone who had put a magnum in my face. I know; I'm becoming a broken record by bringing up the magnum incident over and over again, but _damn_ it all…

"That's enough," Colonel Ndebele asserted his authority once more, silencing everyone. I wasn't the only one who had been trading insults; my comrades had been quarreling with the other ODSTs, who had risen from their hidey-holes.

"Colonel, sir," several of the ODSTs straightened to attention.

One of the black-armored Spec Ops soldiers stepped forward, extending a hand to the Colonel. "Archangel-One-Actual, E Company, 7th Shock Troops."

The Colonel shook the ODST's hand, introducing himself and giving his unit as well. "16th MEF Command received your transmission."

"And you're all they sent?" the Master Sergeant observed us with what I could tell were quizzical eyes, despite his opaque faceplate.

The Colonel shook his head. "We have a reserve force three klicks due south. They're guarding our way out of this shithole. Now, your transmission mentioned having a seriously wounded trooper."

The ODST squad leader nodded. "Captain Delucci, our ONI handler. Normally I'm in command, but this mission was incredibly high priority, so ONI sent in Delucci to carry out the op. It's standard procedure…the Captain stopped a pair of needle rifle spikes with his chest. Our medic has managed to keep him somewhat stable…but he won't last too much longer."

"Winston, Kendall," the Colonel gestured to two of the other marines that had accompanied him here. "You're on stretcher detail."

As our two commanders started sorting the situation out, I inverted the pistol I was holding and presented it grip-first to the ODST I had knocked down.

"We weren't exactly expectin' rescue," the man explained as he holstered the magnum. "We just wanted to take out as many Covies as we could before…well, that's why we had the mines."

"You're lucky all of us have been through the mill," I murmured, reaching for my helmet and sliding it back onto my head. "Those mines would have killed anyone who was new to this."

"Yeah, well they didn't, so hows about we move forward?" the Irish ODST suggested.

"Yo, Celt!" one of the other ODSTs—a burly, almost hulking man, well over six feet tall—was walking over. "Where's the guy that took you down?" he was asking in a deep, rumbling, distinctly Gullah-accented voice before catching sight of me. "You him?"

"Uh…" I mumbled, extremely hesitant about admitting to knocking down the teammate of this giant. I finally nodded, but only after I had picked up my BR55. "Yeah, that was me…look, I didn't want to-"

"You got a lil' berserker in you, man," the ODST punched me in the shoulder. It was a friendly punch, which didn't mean it hurt any less. "Don't see that very often. 'specially not in normal infantry grunts. Shit, why ain't you one o' us?"

Several of my comrades quickly set up the portable stretcher we had brought with us. It was made of collapsible aluminum poles and a canvas sheet. Captain Delucci—the ONI officer in charge of whatever the ODSTs had been doing—was still awake and lucid, despite the two still-glowing spikes protruding from his chest.

The ODSTs' medic—a shorter, quiet man who the others called 'Apache'—had been tending to him. My comrades moved the ONI officer onto the stretcher and started to make their way down the hillside back into the valley.

"Shall we get a move on?" the Colonel suggested, gesturing for everyone to fall out.

"Negative, sir," the ODST Master Sergeant shook his head. "Our mission can still be salvaged. You mentioned bringing a sharpshooter with you?"

"He's a sharpshooter, not a sniper," the Colonel warned the Helljumper, but the Master Sergeant—Goldstein, his name was—simply shrugged.

"Your sharpshooter is the best we have," the ODST squad leader explained. "O'Keefe over there," the Master Sergeant gestured to Celt, the Irish ODST who I had tackled. "He's the closest thing we have to a sniper, and he got hit in the hand. Your sharpshooter is all we have right now. I know you would have brought your sharpshooter along with you, so which one is he? Please don't tell me you sent him down with the Captain…"

The Colonel turned his head and whistled to me. "Staff Sergeant!" he called. "The Master Sergeant here may have need of your services."

The Master Sergeant depolarized his faceplate and stepped over towards me. He looked a little older than me—mid-thirties, most likely. He had light brown eyes, a largish nose, and a pale complexion that suggested he spent a lot of time in his armor.

"What's your name, devil-dog?" the ODST squad leader asked me.

"Staff Sergeant Alley Garris—Alpha Company, 9th Force Rec-"

"Staff Sergeant Garris," the Master Sergeant cut me off, obviously not wanting to hear my unit. I shut my mouth, seeing the man's desire to cut straight to the chase. He didn't seem to mind that I had used my nickname 'Alley' in my introduction—my stomach did little flip-flops when I called myself Albert. I hate that name.

The Master Sergeant gave a whistle to one of the other ODSTs, who promptly tossed him an SRS99B sniper rifle…one that had presumably been used by Celt—O'Keefe?—before his hand wound. He then held it out to me. "You know how to use one of these?"

"Do I ever…" I took the sniper rifle, running my hand down its stock and barrel, getting a feel for the weapon. "Trained my ass off with one of these babies during my time in Needle Point… Only reason I'm not one of you right now is…well, it doesn't really matter. Yeah, I can use it."

"I hope you can prove that to me," the Master Sergeant said grimly. "And you can hand me that hunk of shit you got there," he motioned at the beam rifle I had on my back.

I shrugged. I already had a sniper rifle now, and I wouldn't be able to keep the beam rifle anyway…so it was pretty much useless to me right now. I handed it over to the Master Sergeant, who promptly hurled it down the hill.

"Let's take a walk," the Master Sergeant said to me. "Colonel, sir; I would rather you kept your men back here, or if you returned to your exfil point. No need for us to foul this up twice."

My fellow marines muttered a few choice things under their breaths, but no one said anything out loud. The Colonel simply nodded. "Will do. Good luck. Try to bring Garris back alive, would you? His company has lost enough good people."

"Alright, Staff Sergeant Garris," the Master Sergeant said to me as we started heading further on up the ridge, moving towards the top. The other ODSTs—there were six of them total, including the Master Sergeant—fell into formation behind us. "Just on the other side of this here ridge, the Covenant has set up a fairly large dig site. Now, why they're digging or what they're digging for is something we don't know, nor is it important. What's important is that the Covies have a Prophet—one of their religious leaders—overseeing the whole set-up."

"You boys are here to kill it, I'm assuming?" I guessed.

"Yep," the Master Sergeant nodded. "We never made it to the top of the ridge. Covies already had a whole legion of ground troops moving through the area to garrison the dig site. We were compromised before we could make it to our position; that's when the Captain got hit…but now it looks like things have quieted down. The Covies really don't have very good security at all. But with Celt's hand wound, we still had no way to complete the mission. Until you showed up."

"We need to get this done quick," the black ODST—the one who had been talking about me taking down Celt—was saying as we neared the top of the ridge. "If we get caught out here when it's daylight out, we're in all kinds o' shit…"

"Yeah, Pyro, thanks for the input," one of the other ODSTs interjected. "I can feel my morale skyrocketing."

"We're getting close to the top; cut the chatter," the Master Sergeant hissed.

We ended up having to take a short detour to circumnavigate a sheer rock face in front of us. This was one of the steeper parts of the ridge; sometimes it would go from a steep earthen incline to a blatant rock face—something we didn't have the time or equipment to scale.

While there were a few places on this side of the ridge where the incline was vertical, the other side of the ridge was nothing _but_ a huge rock face. This was because the Covies had dug that whole side of the ridge away, leaving a sheer drop. After we got around the rock formations, the top of the ridge was only a dozen or so meters further up. The Master Sergeant made us all go prone before we actually made it all the way up.

At the top, the whole ridge leveled out for a few hundred meters. It would have been a perfect spot for a camping trip had it not been for the whole Covenant-destroying-the-world thing.

We ran into another patrol up here, but the Covies really hadn't been expecting any real action. The only potential trouble was another blue-armored Elite minor. I knew the ODSTs were conversing with each other, but I wasn't on their COM channel, so I couldn't really hear a word of it; they were speaking really quietly. The Master Sergeant grasped my shoulder when he saw me about to raise my BR55, shaking his head.

The other ODSTs were silently crawling into good firing positions around the clearing the Covie patrol was situated in. I tapped my toe on the inside of my boot impatiently as I waited for them to open fire, but they never did, almost as if they were waiting for something...

That was when I noticed one of the ODSTs running at full clip _towards_ the Elite, coming at it from behind. The fact that none of the Covies would have expected an enemy to do such a thing combined with the more basic fact that they weren't really expecting any trouble up here really explained why they went down so easily.

I saw a glint of silver as the running ODST drew a large, wicked-looking hunting knife. The man let out a loud whoop and managed to leap onto the Elite's back. The split-chin gave a warble of pure surprise and anger, and it started turning this way and that, trying to throw the ODST off.

The ODST—who had been whooping and hollering like he was in a rodeo—quickly sank his knife into the back of the Elite's neck, killing it instantly. The moment he had leaped onto the Elite's back, the other ODSTs had opened fire, taking down the score of grunts that the Elite had been leading. For the most part, they used silenced M7 submachine-guns, though Celt and another ODST were using silenced magnums. They all used silenced weapons so as not to alert any Covies in the dig site below.

"Oh-_ho_ yeah!" the ODST who had killed the Elite was howling like a madman, his voice thankfully muffled by his armor. "Y'all see that? Did y'all _see_ that?" he was saying in his slow, almost lazy drawl. "I rode 'im! I _rode_ that motherfucker like the broncos back 'ome would ride a-"

"Put a lid on it, Cajun," the Master Sergeant growled.

The boisterous ODST—I figured he must have pulled stunts like that pretty often—quieted down, wiping his blade off on the Elite's armor and putting it back into its sheath.

"Celt," the Master Sergeant called over to the Irish ODST. "Take the Staff Sergeant to your sniping position. We'll set up a perimeter and keep your backs clear."

"Sir," Celt nodded. He gestured for me to follow him and set off towards the edge of the cliff.

Neither of us spoke until we reached the edge of the cliff. The view was almost breathtaking—normally, we would have been rewarded with a vista of hills, grassy meadows, and the many-colored ocean of autumn trees. Today, we got a nice view of what looked almost like a construction site, times a thousand. Countless plasma torches illuminated the area. At our height, it looked like a colony of fireflies in the darkness.

Acres and acres of land appeared to have been stripped and dug through. Even the hills had been carved away. I couldn't clearly see what it looked like, as it was the middle of the night and plasma torches only went so far, but it probably would have looked like a brown desert. Thousands and thousands of grunts and Engineers were working tirelessly, operating the digging platforms, flash-vaporizing the excess waste…Elites also stood watch here and there, the blue-white glows of their energy swords clearly visible in the darkness.

What caught my eye, however, was the structure in the center of the whole dig site. Judging by the shape the plasma torches gave it, it looked almost like a dwelling; it was pretty much like one of the Covies' assault towers, the ones that floated on the gravity beams, only much larger and enclosed.

I lay down my BR55 and hefted the sniper rifle, lowering myself to a prone position on my stomach. I switched the scope to infrared so that I could aim in the dark and immediately swept my gaze over that central structure.

"Our technical wizard decrypted some of the Covies' transmissions," Celt was explaining. "From what he could determine, these Covies are lookin' for some sort of artifact or artifacts and are being overseen by someone called the Vice-Minister of Equanimity…who we're assumin' is the Prophet. Either way…that Prophet down there is goin' to die. Keep a watch on the central structure-"

"I've been on it since before you started talking," I replied, centering my crosshairs on the soft indigo grav-beam shining down from the underbelly of the structure.

Celt had pulled out his spotting scope and was observing the central structure as well. Every couple of minutes, he would call out the wind speed and direction as it fluctuated. Other than that, the only thing that broke the silence was the occasional chirp of a cricket, or the rustling of the leaves as the gentle breeze worked its way up to our position.

"So why do they call you Celt? What's your real name?" I eventually asked the ODST spotter, if only to pass the waiting with some conversation. If there were any Covies close enough to hear us, that would mean the others were all dead, in which case we would be screwed anyway.

The other man must have come to a similar conclusion, because he answered me. "O'Keefe's my name…Patrick O'Keefe," the Irish ODST murmured. "'Celt' is the squad callsign I got when I joined… Don't even ask why they call me Celt; if ye don't bloody understand why I got that name, I'm not even goin' to waste my time explainin' it to ye."

"That normal for Spec Ops? Getting your own name like that?"

"There's something psychological to do with it," Celt shrugged. "We're also never supposed to say our real names over the COM during our ops. Covies aren't our only enemies."

I snorted. "What, you afraid of having Innies jump you? Out here?"

"Have any blokes ever called ye 'Alley' over the COM during a battle?" Before I could even respond, he cut me off. "No, they don't. They call ye 'Staff Sergeant'. It's standard military procedure to never use your name over the COM. Half the shite ONI had us do technically never happened, anyway. Wouldn't want any records comin' back to us. It's a habit you get into; you infantry tommies call each other by your ranks; _we_ call each other by our callsigns."

I shrugged, accepting this explanation, returning my eye to the scope. "You fight on Harvest, Celt?" I asked, deciding to call him by his callsign and—from what I could perceive—preferred name.

"Aye," the ODST nodded, not looking away from his spotting scope. "That I did. You?"

"_Mm-hm,_" I grunted. "Twice. I was part of the Harvest Militia; I was there for the First Contact and the evacuation…the next year, HIGHCOM sent me and the others back for the campaign."

"Where'd you fight?"

"I was part of the Gladsheim offensive."

"You one o' them fellas who fought in the ruins of Utgard?"

"Uh-huh," I nodded again. "After we took Gladsheim, we advanced north to the Bifrost and…well, the rest is history. Lost a ton of good people there…"

"_Mm,_" the ODST hummed in agreement. He looked like he was about to say something else, but he never got the chance, because at that moment there was a small commotion down in the dig site. "Wait a tick…looks like we got some action downstairs…" Celt murmured.

I was already observing what was going on down there. It was happening in one of the spots where the dig site was carving through a ridge. "They've…they've _found_ something…" I murmured.

Celt was saying the same thing into his SQUADCOM, no doubt reporting our findings to the Master Sergeant.

The Covenant mining platforms—which looked unnervingly similar to their Scarabs—had uncovered something in the rock face. Upon further scrutiny, I saw that it was a wall…a shiny, silver wall covered in perfectly symmetrical, geometric symbols. I didn't have time to examine it any further, though.

"Movement at the target site," Celt informed me.

I quickly swung my aim back over to the central structure. Our assumptions that it was the living quarters of a Prophet were proven correct. The grav-beam pulsed as a shape descended down from above. What I saw was a frail creature in some sort of anti-gravity chair. Not wizened or elderly; simply frail. It probably used that floating chair more than its legs. It had a long, thin neck which supported a somewhat disproportionately large head. It wore blue and white robes and some sort of head decoration…clearly, it was an important figure in the Covenant hierarchy.

"Wind speed and direction is still fifteen kilometers per hour westerly…and holding," Celt said. "Make the compensations and line up the shot. Quickly, now."

"Hello, Mr. Vice-Minister of Equality…" I murmured, nudging my crosshairs down a bit. "I don't want to hurt you…I just want to talk…"

"_Equanimity,_" Celt corrected me.

"Whatever." I closed my other eye, focusing entirely on my shot. I adjusted the scope a tad, compensating for the wind. I also compensated a little bit for the angle of the shot, keeping in mind the distance of my target, the range of the rifle, and the arc of the bullet. This compensation wasn't as big, though; the distance was not all that great.

I took another deep breath, tracing the Prophet's path. The Honor Guard Elites had clustered around it as it made its way towards the place where the platforms had uncovered that mysterious wall. I edged the crosshairs a bit in front of the Prophet and took another deep breath.

I had no clear shot. The Prophet was surrounded on all sides by his Honor Guard escorts…I would have to double up.

Common, Alley. This is it. This is your chance to be that sniper you've always wanted to be. After this, it's back to the trenches. Make it count.

I wasn't nervous, or anything. I had hit every target I had aimed at in Needle Point; even the moving ones. This was exactly the same thing…sure, maybe the target was alive and an important religious figure in the Covenant leadership caste…but a target's a target, no matter how you dress it up.

I squeezed the trigger once…twice…

I needed both of the shots. The first shot drilled right through the neck of one of the Honor Guard Elites flanking the Prophet, dropping it where it stood. This cleared the way for the second shot, which went right into the Covenant leader's left temple.

"Scratch one Prophet…" I murmured.

"Well fuck me…" Celt whispered. "Helluva shot, boyo…"

The Covenant religious leader's head flopped back and its body slumped over and keeled out of the grav-throne. The Honor Guards stood rock-still for a moment, watching their leader fall to the dirt, minus its life. Then they all went berserk, their mandibles splaying wide in a silent roar.

Even from up here, we could hear the ruckus caused by the sudden death of the Prophet.

"They're sounding pretty butthurt down there," I observed. "What say we…you know…get the fuck outta here?"

Suddenly, the ground started to shake. I looked up and saw dozens of blue streaks arcing through the sky towards our position. Well, not specifically our position; just the cliff face as a whole. They knew where the shots had come from, and were going to soften the whole place up before bringing in their infantry.

I could also spot what looked like a squadron of banshee fliers, coming right for us. Not good. Not good at all.

One of those plasma bolts slammed into the ground not ten meters away. That jolted me and Celt up to our feet. Without even thinking about it, we started running like mad, half sprinting, half-sliding down the ridge towards the valley.

"You kill the Prophet?" one of the ODSTs asked us when we came bursting back through the underbrush into the place where me and my comrades had first encountered the Helljumpers.

"What gave it away?" Celt snapped. "Was it us running our arses off _away_ from where the Covies are, or was it the bloody plasma coming down _on our feckin' heads!_"

"Alright, alright, Jesus…" the Helljumper muttered.

"They…they have banshees…on the way," I said in between pants.

"_Right,_" the Master Sergeant rose to his feet as well. "Time to go."


	25. II Chapter 25: A Little Overreaction

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Little Overreaction

**November 30, 2536 (Military Calendar) \  
Verus III, Alpha Tauris System**

I should have known this whole thing wouldn't be a smooth in-and-out rescue. That wouldn't have involved getting charbroiled in a shower of plasma, so deep down I always knew things would get complicated.

The complications started when the ODSTs we were supposed to rescue needed me—a sharpshooter—to finish their mission by assassinating a Covenant Prophet. Okay; still not quite yet fubar. Getting there, but not quite.

It got fubar the moment I blew a hole in the Prophet's head. The Covies had quickly determined which direction my shot had come from and had promptly started raking this whole damn ridge with plasma artillery. They hadn't spotted me or the squad of ODSTs which I had temporarily seemed to have joined, but it was only a matter of time.

"You guys have any vehicles?" I shouted as we finished tumbling, sliding, and jumping our way down to the bottom of the ridge which we had been holed up on.

"No!" the ODST Master Sergeant shouted back. "We were dropped in like you boys! It's all on foot from here; I hope your pelicans are sticking around!"

"They will be!" I answered confidently. "We never leave a man behind!"

"Pyro; prime that SPNKr!" the Master Sergeant ordered as we heard the whine of banshee fliers coming in hot. "Hold your fire until they have us sighted!"

"_Got it!_" the black ODST—who went by the callsign 'Pyro'—hollered, shrugging his hefty rocket launcher off of his back.

The valley, which had been dark and somewhat tranquil when I had crossed through it the first time, was now a nexus of chaos and pandemonium. There wasn't much wildlife left, but the few animals who had remained were getting the hell out of there _now_. Trees were burning all over the place, filling the air with the acrid smell of burnt leaves. The fires cast the valley in a hellish red glow…not quite enough to illuminate the place, but bright enough to render the use of infrared night vision unnecessary.

The banshees spotted us just as we were crossing the stream. The Covie fliers passed by low overhead, but didn't fire.

"Did they miss us?" Pyro asked hesitantly, shouldering his SPNKr.

I knew better. "Nope," I shook my head. "That was just the visual run, to give them a feel for our strength, armament, as well as the direction we're heading. We're dead in their sights, now."

"Wrong," Pyro declared, glancing into the sighting scope of the SPNKr. "They're dead in _my_ sights."

The banshees banked back towards us in a tight one-eighty, their forward nose-mounted plasma cannons blazing to life. Plasma bolts peppered into the ground and water. The stream hissed and steamed as the plasma flash-vaporized the water it came into contact with.

"Fan out! _Fan out!_" the Master Sergeant screamed. The banshees were no doubt going to fire their fuel-rod projectiles down on us—being bunched up would have been an extremely bad idea.

Sure enough, as the banshees reached the bottom of their strafing dive, they unleashed crackling green hell down on us. The only one of us who hadn't scattered before the barrage was Pyro, who stood his ground defiantly, feet spread wide.

Pyro fired his SPNKr, sending two rockets blazing up into the sky. One of the rockets slammed into one of the banshees, consuming it in the resulting explosion, but the other rocket only grazed one of the thruster engines of another Covie flier. Even so, the destabilization caused by losing one of its two propulsion thrusters forced the flier to break off.

"Anyone hurt?" the Master Sergeant called out.

"Gotta lil' singe in my hindparts from that last 'un," Cajun—the loudmouthed ODST with the Louisiana drawl—reported. "Nuthin' major."

We kept on pounding our way through the woods after we crossed the stream. The Covenant plasma bombardment was shifting to keep up with us. The hellstorm of plasma wasn't hitting the ridge, anymore; it was now carpeting every inch of the valley it could find. We had to get out of here, _fast_.

"Watch those banshees! They're going to make another pass," the Master Sergeant yelled to us. "Virgin! Get over to Pyro and help him with the SPNKr!"

"Yessir!" one of the ODSTs replied, making his way over to the rocket launcher-toting Helljumper, who was struggling to reload it while running.

I jumped over a tree root that rose up from the ground in front of me, narrowly avoiding getting tripped up. The leaves and branches rattled and shook as the banshees swept low for another pass, their nose cannons blazing.

One of the plasma shots nicked me in the side of my back. I stumbled, spinning forward from the force of the hit. It felt like someone had hit me with a sledgehammer; white-hot pain spread throughout my back as my mind registered that I had just been hit by plasma.

My armor must have held, though. If it hadn't held, I would be on the ground screaming right now, or worse: on the ground _not_ screaming. I swore at the top of my lungs, venting the initial reaction to getting hit, then regained my footing and shoved the pain into a dark, dusty corner of my mind.

"Who was that? Who got hit?" the Master Sergeant bellowed.

"I'm fine, damn it all!" I snapped, pushing myself to the very limits of my running speed. "Keep going!"

"Well, as long as you don't-"

The Master Sergeant was suddenly outlined in a blinding green explosion. The earth heaved as the banshees unleashed their fuel rod bombs down on us. The rest of what he was saying to me was lost as one of the projectiles slammed down somewhere close to him.

I could see Pyro firing his SPNKr out of the corner of my eye, taking down another of the Covie fliers.

I shook my head, blinking out the white spots and stars sparkling in and out of my vision. That explosion had half-blinded me, but the moment had passed. I swore again as I saw the motionless form of the Master Sergeant lying on the ground, parts of his armor still smoking.

I hurried towards the downed Helljumper, but Celt got there first. The Irish ODST rolled the Master Sergeant onto his back. "_Apache!_" he was screaming. "Apache! Get your Indian arse over here, _now!_"

"That's 'Native American arse' to you, Celt!" I heard Apache—the ODST squad's medic—retort from somewhere behind us. The medic finally made it to where the Master Sergeant was lying and crouched down to examine him.

"What in the devil is the hold-up back there?" Cajun exclaimed, his accent thickening almost to the point of not being able to understand him. "Them banshees ain't gonna wait fer-"

"The Sarge is down!" Celt snapped. "We're all very feckin' sorry for the inconvenience!"

"He's fine," Apache murmured, taking his hands off of the Master Sergeant's vitals. "Took a little hit to the leg, and the concussive forces of that blast pretty much overloaded his sensory…you know what, forget the explanation. He's fine, just unconscious! Someone give me a hand, here…"

"I got him," I stepped forward, helping Apache hoist the unconscious Master Sergeant to his feet. I knew Celt wouldn't be able to easily carry him because of his hand wound. He probably could have managed, but I didn't have a hand wound, so that made the choice rather easy. I slung my BR55 over my shoulder, where it hung next to the SRS99B, which I had strapped diagonally across my back. It wasn't comfortable, but it still worked.

I threw the Master Sergeant over my shoulder, holding him like a sack of potatoes. I got my balance, compensating for the sudden shift in weight, and set off again. The whole thing had taken less than thirty seconds, though it seemed a lot longer when I looked back on it.

"You got him?" Celt called to me. The Irish Helljumper was running alongside me, glancing hesitantly at the Master Sergeant.

"Here's hoping!" was all I said in reply. I winced a little bit every time the sniper rifle or the Master Sergeant's head brushed against the spot where I had been hit by the plasma shot from one of the Covie fliers. Sure, my armor had held, but the sheer heat of the plasma must have cooked the skin that had been _under_ the armor.

"I'm almost out o' rockets!" Pyro was saying as he and the other ODST with him finished reloading the SPNKr. "I just loaded my last two!"

"_Spirits!_" Virgin, the ODST assisting Pyro, suddenly pointed. Sure enough, we could see no less than four of the U-shaped Covie dropships descending over the valley, hovering down low towards the treeline. Though we could see them once they got down low enough, we all knew they were dropping ground forces.

"Hope they didn't drop any ghosts…" Celt murmured.

The first ridge which I had climbed over with Colonel Ndebele and the other marines from the 9th Force Recon was getting nearer. We needed to hoof it up and over that ridge to make it to our exfil point.

I nearly stumbled on another root, but again I managed to keep my footing. This was doubly fortunate, as I was now carrying a wounded trooper on my shoulder. That kinds of upped the stakes a tad.

"Watch yer asses!" Cajun exclaimed suddenly. "Them Covie fuckers've gone an' dropped ghosts down behind us!"

"You just _had_ to open that mouth of yours," Apache, who had been within earshot of Celt's last statement, muttered to the Irish Helljumper.

"Make those last two rockets count, Pyro!" Celt shouted, ignoring Apache's jab.

The banshees seemed content to pepper us from a distance, no longer coming in for low, sweeping dives like before. They knew that every time they did that, we killed one or two of them. I guess they _didn't_ know that we were nearly out of rockets, and just as well.

Another plasma bolt impacted not too far ahead of us, melting the dirt and underbrush into a red-hot crater. If one of those suckers hit me, there wouldn't be anything left. Maybe a finger or a helmet, but beyond that…

Just when things couldn't get any worse, those four dropships then started firing on us. They had already unloaded all of their ground complements and were now homing in on us from the air.

"_Jesus H!_" I swore, ducking instinctively as a rain of plasma disintegrated the tree to my left. "Sure, so maybe I killed their Prophet butt-buddy, but don't you think they're overreacting just a _tiny_ bit?"

"You know how bad Elites are? You know, their whole 'I'd rather die before lettin' me honor get tarnished' deal?" Celt asked me.

"Yeah, no shit!"

"Well take that and multiply it by ten or fifteen, and you'll get an idea of how the Honor Guard Elites feel!" Celt explained. "There was a fuckload of Honor Guard Elites down in that digsite, and you just 'tarnished their honor' by killing the one they swore to protect! They're sorta pissed off, right now!"

As we made our way up the slope of the ridge, I actually found myself missing the trenches. Life in the trenches had been simple—when the Covies threw something at you, you either ducked or repelled it. Here, though…here, you were actively _seeking_ trouble…although something about that appealed to me as well.

"Staff Sergeant!" Celt bellowed. "Ghost on your six!"

I twisted my head around to look behind me. Big mistake. Just like Celt had said, one of the Covie ground assault vehicles was coming up fast on my tail. Normally I would simply dive out of the way, but I was carrying Master Sergeant on my shoulder, so rolling wasn't a good idea.

"Thanks for the update!" I rolled my eyes. "What the fuck am I supposed to do? I'm kind of _carrying someone right now!_"

Celt muttered something under his breath, fumbling with his belt. I cocked a curious eyebrow at what he pulled from his side—one of the small, C-shaped plasma pistols that grunts and jackals usually carried. "You owe me for this," the Irish Helljumper grunted.

Celt depressed the trigger on the Covie weapon. The two nodes at the ends of the barrels started to hum and glow. A sizzling orb of crackling green plasma energy hummed into existence in between the two prongs at the ends of the 'C' as the plasma pistol overcharged.

Celt released the ball of energy, which leaped from the plasma pistol with a loud hiss. The plasma overcharge struck the oncoming ghost right in its frontal armor. The purple alloy bubbled and dented where the charge hit, but the damage was superficial. What caused the actual damage was the overcharge shorting out the ghost's power.

Faint blue tongues of electricity crackled all over the chassis of the ghost, almost like blowing a fuse. The ghost's thrusters and anti-grav nodes went dark when the ghost was going at upwards of eighty miles per hour, causing the Covie assault vehicle to slam into the earth in a blue fireball. Even if the vehicle itself had survived, there was no way in hell the driver could have.

"For last-resort situations," Celt explained his possession of a Covie plasma pistol, tucking the weapon back into its holster. "Kept it quiet from the brass. Best not to use it again for a few hours to give the batteries a chance to recharge."

"More of 'em, comin' up hot!" Cajun warned us.

I heard an explosion—probably Pyro finishing off a ghost with one of his remaining rockets. I also heard a noise that none of us wanted to hear: _Wort! Wort! Wort!_

We were barely halfway up the ridge, and now we had Elites right behind us. They could easily outrun Humans in normal conditions—outrunning a group of wearied, scarred ODSTs who were weighed down by a wounded trooper while going uphill would be a cakewalk for them.

I swore again, the certainty that we weren't going to make it sinking in. "_Form up!_" I finally roared, finding my inner Staff Sergeant. "Prime your frags and take cover behind the trees!"

"May I ask why the fuck you want us to stop?" Pyro grunted as he fired off his other tube.

"If we keep running, they'll catch up and slaughter us!" I retorted. "Might as well fill a few of 'em full of holes, beat 'em back a bit, and try again! Otherwise, we're all toast!"

I think that in the frenzied heat of the moment, none of the Helljumpers really remembered that I was a regular infantry grunt. In that moment, I was simply a Staff Sergeant.

I laid the Master Sergeant down behind a tree and pulled out one of my frags, popping out the pin and hurling it towards the charging Elites. My grenade wasn't the only one out there; several of the ODSTs had also tossed their frags into the fray.

My frag took out the shields of two of the leading Elites. I quickly shrugged off my BR55 and shouldered it, loosing off a burst towards one of the unshielded Elites. The shields of the other Elites started to shimmer and pulse as the ODSTs' gunfire started laying into them.

I dropped one of the unshielded Elites with that first round, which tore into its throat. I aimed over to the right and nearly dropped a second, but it ducked at the last moment, causing my burst to ping right off the top of its helmet.

By then, another Elite had managed to get up close and personal. It wore red armor, identifying it as an Elite Major—the Elite equivalent of a Lieutenant, I think. Its mandibles spread out in a growling snarl as it lunged.

It swept its energy sword towards my neck, intending to bring my miserable existence to an end by separating my head from the rest of me. I ducked, actually able to feel the heat of the plasma blade as it seared through the air where my neck had been a moment ago.

The Elite warbled in irritation and brought its blade slashing down. My heart was in overdrive and my circulatory system had pretty much become a water park of adrenaline. My reflexes were at the highest they would ever be. The moment I ducked, I was ready for the Elite's inevitable secondary strike. As the blade came searing down, I threw myself to the side, rolling over and back up onto my feet.

The Elite Major stabbed its blade forward in a thrust aimed at my gut. As I stepped back, I ended up tripping on another one of those goddamned tree roots. The Elite's thrust once again only stabbed thin air.

The red-armored Elite's warbles of irritation now turned to growls of frustration and anger. It stepped forward and brought its energy sword down towards my head once more. I think I must have let out a high-pitched little-girl shriek—something I would never admit to doing—as I rolled out of the way.

The energy blade sizzled down into the earth right in front of my eyes, just missing my head. The Elite struck down with its fist immediately after the blow, faster than I could react, hitting me right in the gut and knocking the wind out of me. It thrust its blade down again, its twin points making a beeline for my forehead.

I swept my BR55 up and intercepted the Elite's sword arm, holding it at bay with all of my strength. For a brief moment, both of us were locked in position—the Elite holding its sword to my forehead, me looking wide-eyed straight at the plasma blade…

Much as I tried to resist, the Elite was stronger than me by far. One of the twin tips was starting to brush against my forehead; I could feel a spot of pure white-hot pain just above my left eyebrow. This had to end, _now_.

During the struggle, I had managed to curl one of my legs in close. Now, as the Elite's energy sword started to hit home, I lashed out, kicking the Elite right between its legs.

Elites have no genitalia between their legs like we do, I don't think…but a kick is a kick. It hurt.

The red-armored Elite Major grunted in pain as my kick connected. It stumbled, losing its purchase. Unfortunately, my kick—while it _had_ prevented me from getting slowly skewered—made the Elite accidentally swipe its energy sword downwards as it staggered back.

I screamed as I felt the plasma blade draw a searing line down the left side of my face. Looking back on it, there really aren't words to describe how that sort of pain felt. I knew a few marines who had survived wounds from Elite energy swords—all of them would say the same thing; unimaginable pain, almost like a burn, but intensified into a single spot. I could only imagine how it would feel to actually get stabbed.

The blade didn't hit my eye, thank God, because I could still somewhat see through it, though it was blurred by tears. There was no blood—the sheer heat of the plasma blade instantly cauterized any wound it inflicted—but I could feel the wound; a thin, smooth line of fire extending down to my chin. I was incredibly lucky that the angle of the Elite's sudden loss of balance hadn't sent the blade into my face, through my jaw, or into my chest.

Clutching my face with one hand, I caught sight of the Elite recovering from my kick, raising its blade for another go. It plunged its energy sword down, but I rolled back the other way, just missing it once more. The hissing sound of the plasma burning through the dirt was enough to shock me into leaping back up to my feet just as the Elite cleaved its blade over to the side.

In the scrabble, I had lost my BR55 and the sniper rifle. I now faced the Elite Major with nothing except my sidearm—which was down in its holster—and my combat knife.

This little melee was going no place fast, so it was time to stir the pot a little. The throbbing agony in my face temporarily forgotten, I ran forward _into_ the Elite just as it was pulling its sword from the ground. It turned to face me with another warble of surprise just as I crashed into its midsection in a football-style tackle. I really wish someone had got that moment on helmet cam, but…well, memory would just have to do.

The Elite fell onto its back with me on top of it. It was too stunned to move for the briefest of moments, but I took advantage of that to the extreme. I used all my strength to pin the Elite's arm down, unholstering my M6D magnum as I did so. I whipped my sidearm around and tried to empty the clip into the Elite's arm.

The shields failed with a hiss and my rounds started to slam into the Elite's armor. The Covie howled in pain, dropping its energy sword. The weapon hit the ground, winking out as its failsafe destroyed the hilt.

I didn't get the chance to fire the entire clip. The Elite gave another furious growl and worked its leg up in between me and its stomach. It then kicked…and it kicked _hard_. Payback really is a bitch. I flew back at least fifteen feet, slamming into a tree and sliding down into the dirt.

I groaned, trying to roll back onto my stomach and get back to my feet, but the Elite was already on me. It struck me again with one of its feet. I felt several of my ribs crack from the blow. The force of the kick knocked me back down onto my back. The Elite planted a foot on my chest, pinning me down as it pulled out its secondary weapon—a standard, straight-up Covie plasma rifle. As it aimed the weapon right at my face, the only thing I noticed was that this red-armored Elite was missing at least half of its lower-left mandible. It must have been busy these past few years.

But I wasn't quite finished, yet. I still had one weapon left.

As the Elite Major curled a finger around the plasma rifle's trigger, I flicked out my combat knife and jammed it straight into the Elite's leg, plunging it right through two of its armor plates.

The Elite grunted again with pain, its aim faltering. I pushed its foot off and rolled away. I didn't get back up, though…my entire body was just a reservoir of pain, right now. Going hand-to-hand with Elites tends to make people feel that way. This was the first time I had ever been this up close and personal to an Elite…and I have to say, the experience wasn't a pleasant one. Not something I'd ever want to repeat.

The Elite reached down and gingerly pulled my knife out of its leg. It examined the blade for a second before casting it away. It brought its plasma rifle back up and aimed it right at me…but it didn't fire. It just looked at me, pointing its weapon right at me.

I turned to look at it. "Well, what the fuck are you waiting for, you split-chin piece of shit?" I rasped. "_Do it already!_" Even as I howled at the Covie, I saw something curious in the red-armored Elite's stance and eyes. I knew next to nothing about their race…but if it were a Human I was examining, I would have said he was looking at me with a hint of respect.

People would always call me crazy when I told them about this afterwards, but I could have sworn that that Elite had actually seemed momentarily conflicted about putting me down. Not that it mattered, in the end. Even if it did have some measure of respect for me putting up a good fight, I was still a Human and therefore vermin in its eyes.

Its trigger finger tightened, but before it could fire the sky exploded.

Well, to be technical, one of the _dropships_ exploded. One of the U-shaped spirit dropships was suddenly consumed by greedy orange and blue flames, illuminating the night. The _BOOM_ of the explosion echoed off the faces of the nearby cliffs and ridges.

I heard a loud hissing noise right before a second dropship exploded, and I knew what was going on.

When I turned my gaze back to the ground, the red-armored Elite Major was nowhere to be seen. I didn't see its corpse anywhere, either, so it wasn't dead, wherever it had gone. I shrugged inwardly…I was alive. That was all that mattered to me for now.

The next series of explosions were the ghosts blowing up. The Covie assault vehicles had been slowly advancing behind that first wave of Elite ground troops, which I could also see falling back under a hail of gunfire too powerful to be coming from the ODSTs., their shields shimmering in the night.

I turned my gaze to further up the hill, where my suspicions were confirmed. The four pelican dropships—which had taken down the Covenant spirits with their missiles—crested the ridge and pursued the remaining two Covie dropships back the way they had come.

Down on the ground, I could see roundabouts forty or so marines slowly advancing, firing away at the retreating Covies as they came. The Colonel and Lieutenant McCandlish had come back.

I knew we weren't out of the water, yet. I knew that the Elites would never simply cut their losses and retreat—that wasn't their way. They had just been the first wave, and they would definitely be back with reinforcements. We had to get the hell out of here before said reinforcements arrived.

"Staff Sergeant Garris?" I recognized McCandlish's voice anywhere. "Staff Sergeant, are you alright?"

"Do I fucking _look_ alright?" I snapped at him. Now that the adrenaline of my fight was wearing off, I was beginning to feel how much pain I was really in. My face really started to burn, now.

"Bloody hell; what happened to your face?" the Lieutenant asked me as he helped me to my feet.

"Got into a little brawl with an Elite…" I coughed. "Those fucking-" I broke off to cough, suddenly. I felt something wet come from my mouth as I coughed, but I didn't need to look at it to know what it was. I kept on talking once I stopped coughing. "Those fucking split-chin sons of bitches really know how to hurt…"

I left out the part about the Elite hesitating to fire when it had me dead in its sights. There would be time to trade stories when we weren't in imminent danger of dying. I quickly recovered my dropped weapons and started moving off with the rest of the marines.

One of the more burly marines from my outfit picked up the Master Sergeant, who was still lying unconscious in the spot where I had left him.

We didn't take any fatalities, surprisingly. I have no idea what was going on for everyone else during the firefight—all of my attention had been focused on that Elite Major—but the others had taken a beating, too. Pyro was unconscious, having been struck in the head by another attacking Elite, which Cajun had apparently finished off before it finished _Pyro_ off. Apache, the medic, had taken a plasma charge to the arm, Celt had taken two plasma charges to his leg and waist, and Virgin—the youngest member and techie of the squad, named for obvious reasons—had been too close to a plasma grenade detonation and sported some pretty nasty burns.

Only Cajun seemed to have come through unscathed.

The pelicans—whether or not they had taken down those Covie dropships, I don't know—were waiting for us back at our old LZ, where I had first landed. Though it had been only two or so hours since then, it felt like days.

"Good to have you back, Staff Sergeant," the Colonel clapped me on the shoulder as I limped aboard one of the pelicans. "We'll get you fixed up when we get to Wiltshire. I assume your…_mission_ was a success?"

"_Uh-huh,_" I grunted as I sat down. The side of my back burned where I had been hit by a charge from one of the Covie fliers, my chest and torso throbbed from the beating I had taken at the hands of that Elite…and my face felt like someone had drawn a red-hot poker down across my left cheek.

A corpsman who had accompanied us gave me my morphine syrette, which numbed and dulled the pain, but it didn't make it go away. I just sat there…listening to the hum of the pelican's engine as we lifted off and started making our way back north.

Far off in the west, I could see the first rays of sunlight peeking over the horizon—yes, the sun rose in the west on Verus III—as Alpha Tauris began to make its next grand entrance into today.

I rested my head back and closed my eyes. What a day…


	26. II Chapter 26: New Arrivals

Chapter Twenty-Six: New Arrivals

**February 7, 2537 (Military Calendar) \ (Two Months Later)  
New Harmony, Beta Persei System**

Nighttime in Fort Braxton's rec sector got pretty wild. After the suns went down and the nearby city of Monastir went to sleep, a whole new world emerged.

New Harmony was a relatively heavily populated colony, having a population of upwards of eight hundred million souls—slightly more than Reach. So far, it had gone through the war untouched by the Covenant…and hopefully it was going to stay that way.

My battalion, and the rest of the Expeditionary Unit to which it belonged, was standing down on this planet. Until we were called into battle on some other distant colony, we were pretty much on shore leave. Right now, we were stationed at Fort Braxton—one of several military bases on the colony. Tomorrow, our much-needed replacements would finally arrive…until then, it was time for myself and my friends to do whatever the hell we wanted.

I sat on a barstool in the pub set just a short distance away from Fort Braxton, hunched over a half-finished beer—my fifth that night. My head was buzzing pleasantly and the world seemed distorted…out of focus. The colors seemed especially vibrant, the voices especially loud. I didn't care, though. It seemed normal to me.

"_'Ey_…Sargey-Sarge…whas on your mind, man?" Dempsey mumbled next to me, his speech slurred almost beyond comprehension. "You—you got that…that…tha' _look,_ ya know?"

"Jus' thinkin'…" I murmured, my voice equally distorted. "Thinkin' 'ow long it's gonna be when—when the Covers—cov—_Covies_-" I struggled to get the word out, "when they start burning Earth. A man can only take somush—so _much_ o' this 'fore 'e starts going bugfuck…"

Dempsey swiveled around to face me, gripping the bar counter to keep from sliding out of his stool. "You're _already_ bugfuck, Sarge!" he snorted.

I batted my eyes. "You say the sweetest things," I swooned, making kissing noises at my friend. For some reason, the two of us found that extremely hilarious. We howled with laughter, leaning heavily against the bar counter, blowing kisses all over the place.

The pub already had its share of drunken marines making their abode here, and they seemed to find the whole kissing thing funny, too. Soon, the entire place was filled with laughing, completely wasted Warriors of Humanity, all of them staggering around and blowing kisses.

It just got funnier and funnier. I laughed so hard I was afraid my gut was going to explode. The antics continued until one of the marines actually went and _kissed_ another grunt right in the face…and got slapped for it.

The pub was plunged into silence for a few moments, and then the howling laughter returned, twice as loud as before. The marine who had gotten slapped aimed a punch at the one who had struck him, but he completely missed, overshot, and ended up slugging another man.

That man then picked up a chair and smashed it over the other marine's back.

That was just the catalyst, the spark in the powder keg. With the sound of the wooden chair shattering, it was as if a gun shot had gone off. "_Get 'im, boys!_" someone screamed to no one in particular, and suddenly everyone was throwing punches.

I ignored it at first, content to sip away at my beer, oblivious to the chaos all around me. Then some other guy grasped my shoulder and yanked me off the barstool, throwing me to the floor. _That_ pissed me off; _no one_ interrupts me mid-beer.

I planted a kick on the guy's shins, pulled myself up, and slugged him again in the face. He staggered back a few steps into Dempsey, who proceeded to hoist the offender up by his uniform's lapels and hurl him halfway across the room.

The two of us started hitting anything we saw—I think at one point Dempsey even tried to beat up what turned out to be a coat rack.

We fought our way over to one end of the pub, where Dempsey and I ran into a trio of particularly muscular ODSTs. I barely had time to swear before one of the Helljumpers socked me right in the jaw, snapping my head back. I spat something out of my mouth and lunged at the man who had struck me.

To the ODST's defense, he would have crushed me in a normal fight. But he wasn't fighting normal Alley Garris; he was fighting drunk, angry, insane Alley Garris. I fight twice as hard when I'm on the sauce. Maybe I've got some Irish ancestry I never knew about. And besides, _he_ was pretty loopy, too.

I laid into the man, burying my elbow into his gut and following up with a shaky uppercut under his chin. The ODST staggered back, but he hadn't really been hurt. He was just annoyed. He and one of his buddies lunged at me. I tried to knock one of them in the head, but I was seeing double and must have gone for the wrong head. My punch missed by a foot.

The two ODSTs seized me by the arms. They slammed me down onto the bar counter and threw me forward. I slid down the length of the bar, hitting any drinks or silverware that had been on the counter at the time, and fell off the other end, landing on my head and shoulder.

Strangely, the only thought going through my mind as I sailed down that bar counter was how I felt like I was in one of those saloons from the 1800s.

As if to emphasize that point, I staggered back up to my feet, but the moment I was standing up I heard the sound of breaking glass, followed by a sharp pain in the back of my head. I pitched forward, but I was unconscious before I hit the floor.

* * *

Dim sunlight was shining through the small window near my bunk. I muttered something nasty under my breath. Waking up to face reality after a night of sin was…not pleasant. Ignoring the fact that my hangover headache felt like there was a freight train inside my skull, the _outside_ of my head was still kind of throbbing as well.

What could possibly have happened to make it—_oh yeah_… I remembered the sound of shattering glass just before the lights went out. Someone must have broken a beer bottle over my head.

"You're a lucky son of a bitch, you know that?" Dempsey's face came into focus. My friend was pulling his shirt on, getting dressed for the upcoming day. "Lucky that I dragged your ass out of that pub before the MPs came."

"I'm not even gonna ask what happened…" I groaned, swinging myself out of my bunk. "I remember something about blowing kisses…then punching…_no,_" I shook my head, forcing those thoughts from my mind. "No, I'm not doing this. What I'm going to do is take a cold shower," I declared, grabbing my fatigues from under my bunk and heading towards the barracks showers.

"Cold showers are just a myth; you might as well just take a hot one!" Dempsey called after me as I headed away. "You smell like shit, anyway!"

I turned around and gave him the 'up yours' gesture, but left it at that.

Ultimately, I listened to Dempsey and took a hot shower. Something about the steam and the clean smells…it didn't make the hangover go away, but it seemed lessen the intensity a bit. I quickly soaped myself up, lathered my hair with some shampoo, and rinsed off, all within a three-minute span.

I barely recognized myself in the mirror. I never got much of a chance to see my own reflection these days; it was different every time. I wish I had a picture of myself in the Harvest Militia—a weedy, red-haired, sixteen-year-old with eyes too large for his face—so that I could compare it to what I saw now. If you placed a marine fresh out of Needle Point next to a vet, you would instantly be able to tell who the veteran was just by looking at him. It was that sort of thing that would have made my present self look so different from my past self. My face and jaw had filled out a bit, and my red hair had darkened to a ruddy brown. But those were just physical changes.

After I toweled down and washed my face, the only thing I could look at was my scar. I had several scars—a few on my chest and stomach from the spike grenade incident during the battle of Harvest's reactor complex, as well as several more on my limbs from plasmafire—trophies from my exploits during the Harvest Campaign. But one of them stood out more than all the rest combined…probably because it was on my face.

Two months ago, right before Verus III had been fully evacuated, I had assisted a team of ODSTs in assassinating a Covenant Prophet…and in the Covies' subsequent pursuit of us, I ended up getting into a little fight with an Elite Major.

Well, _fight_ was too generous a term; it implied that there was conflict on both sides. It had mostly been me trying not to get decapitated while that Elite was breaking my ass into five pieces. The result had been a thin scar running down from my left eyebrow to the area around my chin. My eyebrow was just bushy enough to conceal the part of the scar that bisected it, and the bottom of the scar disappeared into the ruddy brownish-red hair of my beard, which I kept trimmed to regulation levels.

Still…not that I hated the scar—I thought it was kind of badass—but I could always feel it every time I made a facial gesture. Every smile, frown, laugh, sneeze, or yawn would be a slightly painful reminder of that Elite's energy sword scraping down the length of my face.

What still bugged me night and day from that fight was what the Elite did afterwards. I lost that fight; the Elite pummeled me into next week. It had me on the ground, its plasma rifle pointed right at me…and it hadn't fired. It hadn't killed me. It had the perfect chance to, but it didn't.

I was alive right now because of that Elite. Not because of my own luck, not because of my skill with my weapon, not because I was a good marine…I was alive because of a Covie. It just wasn't right…

"You _are_ going bugfuck, you know that?" I said to the man in the mirror, who said the exact same thing back to me. We always said the same thing.

My squadmates were already in the mess hall by the time I got there, all showered up and clean. Esposito and Devereux moved apart to give me enough room to slide in.

I started shoveling the scrambled eggs and sausage down my gullet as I sat down. None of the others commented on my scar anymore—after the first couple of weeks, stories of that Elite kicking my ass had cooled down. I still got an odd look every once in a while, but no one asked about it anymore.

Breakfast went by pretty fast. After all, our replacements were coming in at 0900 hours, and I had to be there to get the replacements who would be part of my squad squared away.

The battle at the Cedar Rapids High School had put a sizable dent in Alpha Company's strength. We had lost our CO—Captain Howell had been in a coma for nearly a month and was still confined to a bed on a hospital complex—our company executive officer, our Gunnery Sergeant, a platoon lieutenant—two platoon lieutenants, if you counted the fact that Hasegawa got promoted—as well as a large number of our common rank and file, including a few squad leaders. My company needed replacements the most out of all of the companies in the 9th Force Recon. Had it not been for the NCOs who were the backbone of the battalion, the command structure would have probably collapsed.

"Dempsey!" I called out to my oldest friend as he was heading for the mess hall's exit. "Come to the airstrip with me for the replacements, would you?"

"What, you want me to hold your hand?"

"Both hands, if you can spare them."

"You're lucky you got it on with Devereux in Cedar Rapids, otherwise I'd still think you were a queer," Dempsey chuckled.

I didn't even give him the satisfaction of a reply. He was probably the one person who could make fun of me like that and get away with it, with all we'd been through together.

Colonel Ndebele was waiting on the airstrip along with the four company commanders, their platoon leaders, and subordinate squad leaders. I was one of the last ones to arrive. By the time Dempsey and I made it to the airfield, it was 0856 and the pelicans were coming in for their landing.

Dempsey and I spotted Lieutenant McCandlish and went to stand with him. Geoffries, Tirimev, and Pollack—2nd Platoon's other squad leaders—were there as well. I exchanged nods with my compatriots before turning my attention over to the now-grounded pelicans. Their rear ramps hissed down and the pelican crew chiefs hollered at the marines inside to disembark.

A hundred or so marines were unloaded from the dropships. Most of them looked like they were eighteen or nineteen years old—probably fresh out of Needle Point—but there were a select few who looked older and had obviously been through the mill. They were probably here from a medical recovery…or maybe their old units ceased to exist.

The battalion S1—personnel officer—went through the names of all the new arrivals, assigning each of them to their companies.

"No way…" Dempsey murmured. "No goddamn way…"

"What?" I grunted, wondering what had my friend riled up _this_ time. There was always something.

"Look at who our new Gunny is."

We had lost Gunnery Sergeant Harken in the explosion at the Cedar Rapids High School, and we were supposed to be getting a replacement for him here on New Harmony… Why would this get Dempsey all riled up?

I looked up just as Captain Hasegawa called out the new Gunny's name: "_Stisen, Robert A.!_"

It was none other than Stisen, one of our old squad leaders from the Harvest Militia. He had been an Utgard policeman before joining the militia, and he had obviously taken up on Byrne and Johnson's offer to transfer us into the Marine Corps. I hadn't seen him since we had left Harvest, but he hadn't changed all that much.

"_Gentlemen!_" the Colonel stepped forward, pacing along the front rank of the replacements, his hands folded neatly behind his back. "I am Colonel Rolihlahla Ndebele, your battalion commander. For the duration of your stay here with the dear old 9th Force Recon, you will be shooting, you will be slaughtering, and you will be killing. You will be doing anything and everything necessary in order to make the Covies' lives a living Hell. Some of you have already been doing this for a time…but most of you have not.

"As your battalion commander, I will be indirectly responsible for your safety. Those who will be _directly_ responsible for your safety are none other than yourselves. I will try to prepare you for the coming days. I will try to keep you alive…but I will not succeed. Not with all of you. To stay alive out here, you need to follow my rules, and the rules of the battlefield. These rules are as follows: First, under no circumstances should you ever…"

The Colonel's welcome-home speech took another few minutes as he laid out the ground rules for survival in the field. The tips he gave were very useful ones, and just knowing them would probably save a few of the replacements' lives further down the line…but one thing the Colonel _didn't_ mention—on purpose, I would bet—was that _luck_ was what kept most of us alive. _Luck_ wasn't something you could learn, or could become more adept at…you simply had it, or you didn't.

After the Colonel finished speaking, he turned the replacements loose. They all fell out and reported to their assigned company COs. Captain Hasegawa dispersed Alpha Company's replacements to their respective platoon leaders, except for Stisen, who was a company-wide level marine. Captain Hasegawa briefed Stisen himself.

"Good morning, marines. My name is Lieutenant McCandlish," the El-Tee introduced himself to the thirteen new marines assigned to our platoon, herding everyone away from the airstrip and towards the rest of the military compound. "I am your platoon lieutenant. The Colonel is your God, Captain Hasegawa is your Archangel; _I_ am your bloody Jesus Christ. Anyone have any questions that need asking? No? Wonderful."

As we headed back towards the main compound of Fort Braxton, McCandlish introduced the new meat to their squad leaders. I got four of them—Paxton, Mills, Edwards, and Singh. They brought my squad's strength up to thirteen. McCandlish assigned them to my squad, assigned the others to the other squads, and vanished. Word was starting to trickle down from the top brass of…well, no one really knew, but _something_ was going on. Hasegawa had been called away five times this past week for briefings on something or other with Colonel Ndebele…who in turn had been busy with General Lafayette along with the other regimental commanders.

Now, things seemed to have trickled down to the company level. Lieutenant McCandlish, Staff Sergeant Olbrecht, and Lieutenant Morrison—the newly promoted leader of 3rd Platoon—had been called away regularly these past few days as well. Pretty soon, I would imagine the officers would start talking down to us squad leaders.

Until then, we just had to live through our shore leave. That was easy enough, I suppose.

"Alright, boys," I said to my four new marines as we headed past the barracks. "I'm Staff Sergeant Garris, your resident squad leader. This here is Sergeant Dempsey, your resident…well, he's actually kind of a useless shit, but we love him anyway."

Dempsey flipped me the bird. I ignored him and kept right on talking.

"This here is our barracks. Barracks sub-unit A-29; remember that. For the rest of the time we spend on this magnificent piece of UNSC real-estate, sub-unit A-29 is your home. No need to start a fight with any of those Bravo Company fuckers by accidentally sleeping in their bunks, eh?"

"No, Sarge," the marines instantly answered.

"Now that nice little building over there is your mess hall; breakfast is at 0830, lunch at noon, retreat at 0500 and dinner at 0530. You come too early, you get a boot up your ass. You come too late, you get a boot up your ass and you go hungry. Now, then…any of you boys see any action, yet?"

Four heads shook _no_.

"Well, the way the Covies run, that'll change real soon. What about homes; any of you still got homes left?" I asked next. "Dempsey over there and I are both from Harvest. A good deal of our boys are also from other glassed colonies."

None of the new marines raised their hands. One of them even said, "I've been stuck in an orphanage on Reach for the past five years."

I nodded. "Anything you may have had before the Covies showed up, whatever life you led…all that shit is gone, now. Burned. Buried. _We_ are your family, now. If you survive your first stint of combat, you'll be a veteran, too. If you survive, you'll be able to pay the Covies back in kind. It may not seem like much, or even _enough_…but what else can we do? Of course, this is all assuming you survive, which is in of itself a pretty huge assumption."

"What the Colonel failed to mention," Dempsey cut in as we neared our barracks, "is that the number-one life-saver out here is luck. I've lost count, and I'm sure the Staff Sergeant has as well, of the sheer amount of times I would have been dead had I been lying a foot to my left, or had my head been a few inches higher, or had someone else not taken that particle beam or plasma charge in front of me…"

"The moral of the Sergeant's little story," I cleared my throat, "is quite simple. _Good luck_."


	27. II Chapter 27: Heading East

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Heading East

**February 10, 2537 (Military Calendar) \  
New Harmony, Beta Persei System**

Devereux and I held each other tight, our arms and bodies locked passionately in a complex embrace. My lips brushed against hers twice and we kissed, holding it for…well, I wasn't exactly keeping track of time. I wasn't one of those douche-nozzles who checked their watches in bed every fifteen seconds.

Of course, we weren't exactly in bed, either. It was the barrack's utility closet, which was locked for the night. No one usually went into this room, except for certain male and female marines who were able to 'acquire' the access codes. Devereux and I were two such marines.

I had long discarded my shirt fatigues and was trying to undo the clasp to my pants. After a few quick seconds, I gave up and returned my full attention to not thinking about anything outside of this room.

Devereux nearly tripped over a broom handle, but she recovered, holding herself up on one of the shelves. "If the officers ever find out about this…" she started to murmur, but I placed a finger on her lips, nipping those thoughts in the bud.

"They _won't_."

She rose a valid point, though. Engaging in…questionable relations—especially between two members of the same squad, no less—was extremely frowned upon. If any of the brass caught wind of Devereux and me, she would probably get transferred to another company, at the very least.

Now in pretty much just our undergarments, we sank to the floor. I leaned in close and kissed Devereux in the nape of her neck, working my way upwards back to her mouth. She wrapped her arms around my neck and we remained locked in our embrace, unsaid feelings and emotions repressed by weeks and weeks of nonstop fighting in the trenches of Verus III passing between us as smoothly as a fresh stream trickling down a gentle hill.

Though it was late at night and no light came in through the window, Devereux and I seemed to be surrounded by a pale glow. Neither of us were exactly tan…maybe there was moonlight shining in from outside. Again; I really wasn't worrying about it.

Though I never kept track of time, I quickly lost any sense of it. What I thought were minutes could have been seconds…what I thought were seconds could have been hours—I had no way of telling.

The knocking on the door was so sudden that I nearly jumped. My back stiffened with apprehension and I swore, a pit of worry settling into my stomach. If this was an officer—or even another marine—trying to get into the closet, and if they found me and Dev like this…

Then my fears were proven to be unfounded. My shoulders slumped in relief when I heard Dempsey on the other side of the door.

"Hey, Alley!" my old friend called into the closet. "Lieutenant McCandlish is looking for you. The Captain's having a company briefing in six minutes."

"_No_..." I whispered, swearing under my breath. This couldn't have come at a worse time. "_Not_…_happening_…"

"Alley? You in there, man?"

"Oh—uh…I…_thanks,_" I mumbled in between breaths, quickly replying to Dempsey before he got any louder. "Thanks; I'll…uh…I'll be right out, then. Give me a minute, okay?"

Dempsey's snort was clearly audible through the door. "_Give me a minute?_" my oldest friend mimicked me. "Sophie, are you in there, too? Have you two seriously been going at it this whole goddamn time?"

"Oh, shut it; it hasn't been _that_ long…" Devereux rolled her eyes.

"Three hours of noise that a wooden door does little to muffle says you're wrong," Dempsey retorted.

"Five knuckles on a fist getting shoved down your throat say you should get the fuck outta here," I snapped, not in the mood for Dempsey's backhanded commentary _now_ of all times…

I only heard the sound of Dempsey chuckling as he obliged and headed away from the closet, leaving us alone once more. I exhaled and rolled over onto my back, running a hand through my hair and rubbing my eyes wearily. I turned my head and smiled wanly at Devereux. "I have to go, Soph," I sighed.

"At this hour?" Devereux muttered something—unpleasant, most likely—in French and sat up. "Can't it wait?"

"Afraid not," I was kicking and screaming inside my mind. The Lieutenant had _better_ have a good reason for…for _interrupting_. I wanted to kiss Soph again…but I knew that the moment I did, I would lose myself. No, this was the price for having a relationship in the military—the relationship always, _always_ would have to come second, after duty. Devereux and I knew this all too well.

"We can continue where we left off later," Devereux sighed, pulling on her fatigues and lacing up her boots.

I did likewise, shrugging on my shirt and quickly tying up my footwear. I smoothed down my close-cropped hair, trying to erase any evidence of what Dev and I had been doing in here. In the end, I just covered most of it up with my sergeant's cap.

"You heading back to the barracks?" I asked Devereux as we both got back to our feet, straightening out any folds in our fatigues.

She shook her head. "I think I'll clean my weapon again…I'll probably be using it pretty soon."

I unlocked the closet door and stepped out, letting Devereux do the same before closing it. "Really?" I queried. "What makes you say that?"

"Just a feeling," Devereux shrugged hesitantly. "When the brass starts having briefings every day, you know something is up."

"I'll see you," I gave Devereux a friendly punch in the shoulder and headed off down the short hall that led to the entrance/exit doors of our barracks sub-unit.

"_Good luck!_" she called after me. I allowed myself a grin, though I hoped I wouldn't need any of that luck. I hoped _none_ of us would need it…but since when did I ever get what I hoped for?

I ran into Lieutenant McCandlish outside. "Where the hell were you, Garris?" the El-Tee started to ask, but he cut himself off, raising his hands in a nonchalant shrug. "You know what? I don't want to know, so don't tell me. When someone asks someone else why they aren't sleeping at two in the morning, the answer isn't going to be something you like."

I decided not to work that logic out in my mind, opting instead just to roll with it. "Sir," I nodded in agreement. That was a good method for dealing with officers. Just agree with them.

"The Captain is holding a company briefing in the mess hall," McCandlish informed me as we made our way across the parade field. "You're the only one of my Staff Sergeants I haven't been able to track down…ach, no matter now."

We made it to the mess hall at the same time as Staff Sergeant Olbrecht—the temporary leader of 1st Platoon—and one of his subordinate squad leaders. The rest of the company command staff were already inside, sitting towards the front of the whole place. Captain Hasegawa stood in front of everyone, patiently waiting for us to arrive.

"McCandlish, Garris; take a seat, will you?" Hasegawa greeted us.

McCandlish and I snapped off a crisp salute and sat down at the bench where the other squad leaders in my platoon were congregated. Geoffries and Tirimev exchanged nods with us as we arrived.

"I believe that's everyone…" Lieutenant Fletcher, the veteran first lieutenant who had been assigned as Alpha Company's executive officer. He replaced Lieutenant Wilkins, who had been killed at the Cedar Rapids High School back on Verus III.

Agreeing with his XO, Hasegawa decided to begin. "I know it is early in the morning, so I am going to make this a quick as I possibly can. My reason for calling you here now is because tomorrow morning, we will not have time for this. I just got out of a battalion-level briefing with the Colonel. Something is happening up north, in Ghalad…"

I reclined a little bit, resting my feet on the bench in front of me. Finally, us noncommissioned monkeys were going to get some answers.

"Ghalad is the easternmost province of the Avalon landmass—about two-hundred kilometers southeast of our current location," Captain Hasegawa explained. "Reports have been coming in of…strange occurrences down that way, possibly due to local militia groups. That province is notorious for its crime."

"What sort of occurrences, Captain?" Lieutenant Pollack posed the question on everyone's mind. "What could a local militia possibly do to warrant a military response?"

"I am getting to that," the Captain replied. "Normally, this would be a problem for the Ghalad provincial law enforcement, or even the federal agencies…but many of the investigators have turned up dead. As of 2330 Hours on February 9th, yesterday, Governor Montgomery has declared martial law on that province. The 9th Force Recon has been selected to help enforce it. At 0700 in the morning, right after breakfast, we're shipping out to the east."

"And…the occurrences?" Lieutenant Pollack prompted again.

"Federal authorities have been pretty tight-lipped about what's been happening over there, but apparently people are going missing from the rural homesteads," Captain Hasegawa replied. "We will be setting up a firebase south of Currith, one of the villages in the southeastern portion of the province, where most of the disappearances have taken place."

"Seems a little extreme for a local militia group…" Lieutenant McCandlish murmured. "Most militia groups we know of—or even _don't_ know of—don't have the strength to pull something like that off…" The Lieutenant's comment was accompanied by agreeing grunts and murmurs from the other officers and NCOs present at the gathering.

"Which is why we will be assisting federal government agents in investigating these disappearances. Regardless of whether or not these disappearances are linked to a militia group…we are going to put down whoever is making them happen. And that, again, is a fact."

There were a few more questions, but nothing major. The matter at hand had been addressed, discussed, and closed. Captain Hasegawa dismissed us all, giving us orders to have our respective platoons and squads ready to depart before breakfast.

I yawned as I headed back to the barracks, the energy surge of my night finally wearing off. I could use the—I checked my watch—three hours of sleep I would be able to get by Reveille at 0530.

It looked like Devereux's instincts had been right, again. Something _was_ going on…but at least it was supposedly only Insurrectionists. How could Covies be on the planet without anyone knowing it? No; the Covenant was proficient in many things, but stealth was not one of them.

Even so…over ten years of fighting in this war had left me with almost a sixth sense for danger. And it was gnawing at the back of my mind right now, unwilling to leave me alone.

By the time the loudspeakers set up all over Fort Braxton started blaring the harsh trumpet tones of Reveille, I was still lying wide-awake in my bunk. I hadn't gotten an ounce of sleep.

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_Hello, again. Just wanted to let people know that now that the school year is up and running again, I won't be updating at a lightning-fast pace anymore. That, and I fixed the whole population-of-Reach discrepancy. I have no idea why, but I thought Reach only had 17 million people...again, I have no idea where I got that from. But it's fixed, now._

_-TheAmateur_


	28. II Chapter 28: Playing Bodyguard

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Playing Bodyguard

**February 11, 2537 (Military Calendar) \  
New Harmony, Beta Persei System**

Alpha Base was a nice enough place to live. It was the semi-permanent firebase my battalion had set up to accommodate us during our time spent out here in the Ghalad Province.

To be fair, the Ghalad Province is probably one of the most beautiful pieces of land in the entire Avalon landmass. The southeast portion of it—which we were currently stationed in—comprised mostly of farmland, meadows, and hills. Almost perfect countryside. The downside of the region was that its cities were nearly overflowing with gang and Insurrectionist violence. Crime was part of everyday life…this more than anything ruined the almost idyllic beauty of the Ghalad Province.

Federal agents had been sent into Ghalad to investigate a recent slough of disappearances that have been occurring. People from the countryside where militia groups were suspected to operate had been vanishing without a trace for the past week or so, and at such an alarming rate that New Harmony's central government was directly intervening. Martial law had been declared in the province. Local law enforcement agencies were enforcing those rules in the cities and the other parts of the province.

My battalion was here to assist the federal agents. Whoever was making these people disappear was liable to be dangerous, so Governor Montgomery—New Harmony's planetary governor—had approved the use of military force in the investigations. And here we were.

I scooped the last vestiges of deviled ham out of the ration can I was eating from, dropping them down my gullet. I tossed the can into a nearby recycler and jogged across the greens to join my platoon, which had congregated around the motor pool. The forty or so marines of 2nd Platoon were standing at attention, listening to McCandlish's briefing.

_Why am I always the last one to show up at these things?_ I wondered as I joined my comrades, discreetly sliding between Esposito and Dempsey.

The Lieutenant was introducing an unknown, unfamiliar man who was clad in a distinctly non-military black suit. "Alright, gents, this here is Agent Rodney, New Harmony Federal Domestic Intelligence Agency. He is a level one field agent, qualified in combat, and we are going to be accompanying him today."

'Qualified' in combat. I tried not to laugh.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Agent Rodney addressed us. "Today, we will be heading into town. I have some leads I need to follow up on concerning insurgent activity in this area, and I need you boys to make sure the criminals down there don't turn me into a cold cut. Any questions?"

None of us raised a hand. Interpreting our silence as a _no,_ the New Harmony DIA agent gave a crisp nod and stepped back. "I believe all of you know how to find the vehicles."

"You heard the man; _fall out!_" McCandlish barked.

I joined the other squad leaders in directing my marines into the motor pool. Most of the platoon mounted up on the warthogs, but I climbed into the one of the three humvees we would be using, which were better suited for small-arms fire.

I sat down behind the steering wheel and punched the ignition. The Humvee hummed to life. Esposito climbed into the passenger seat while Devereux and Dempsey took the back seat.

"Let's get this shit on the road, man," Esposito said, drumming his fingers lightly on the stock of his MA5B.

My humvee was at the rear of the convoy. There were two other humvees in our convoy, along with a handful of LAAG warthogs.

Agent Rodney and Lieutenant McCandlish were in the middle humvee , and they gave the order to move out. I pulled the wheel and maneuvered the humvee out onto the gravel path leading to the entrance of Alpha Base, where we drove along half a kilometer or so of open fields before coming across Stillwater Road, which eventually ran into the nearby town of Currith.

I don't think any of us really expected to run into any trouble with anyone who had a beef with the UNSC. Militias were evidently pretty active in these parts…but we didn't see anything along the way. If Insurrectionists were there…they kept to themselves. Good thing for them, too; the miniguns mounted on top of our humvees weren't just for show.

"Too bad such a pretty place ends up being such a shithole," I commented, watching the trees and hills roll on by as we rumbled our way down Stillwater Road. I could swear that I had actually heard a distant clatter of gunfire over the hum of the humvee's engines. That dull clatter was a noise that was all too common around these parts.

The thought of these people shooting each other made me uneasy. My comrades and I spent day after day risking our lives in the mud, doing our level best to fight off hordes of aliens that seem to want us extinct so badly. What excuse did _these_ people have to start shooting each other up? Were _they_ putting their lives on the line to halt the Covies? No. They weren't.

"_Fundamentalist assholes…_" I muttered under my breath, gripping the wheel a bit harder.

"Hm?" Dempsey grunted from the back, not quite hearing me.

I shook my head. "Forget it."

"How far away is this town supposed to be?" Devereux yawned, laying her MA5B on his lap and relaxing back into her seat.

"Not far," I replied. "Ten minutes or so."

"Stuck playing bodyguards for some asshole in a suit… You know, I never thought I'd miss the front lines," Devereux grumbled. She then frowned and examined what she had just said, and quickly changed her mind. "Scratch that…this isn't so bad…"

"This shit's a fucking waste of time, that's what it is," Esposito sighed.

"It's still better than the front lines," Devereux reminded him.

"_Si, _but sleeping back at Alpha Base is better than _this,_" Esposito shrugged.

Hey, none of us argued with him; he was right. In any situation, an optimist could always give worse scenarios...but marines could always give you _better_ ones. We were masters of griping. No matter what the environment was, we could always find something to complain about.

I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead of me. I tended to get engrossed in my own thoughts from time to time...normally, that wasn't all that bad, but it wouldn't be a good thing to do while driving a humvee.

"Contemplating life, again?" Dempsey quirked. I rolled my eyes; Dempsey, to date, was the only one who would notice when my mind strayed. Over ten years of fighting alongside him resulted in his knowing every single minute tick of my behavior.

"Wondering how much easier my life would get if I got you killed in a car crash because I was too deep in thought to be paying attention to the road," I shrugged. "Nothing major."

"Good to know."

Gradually, the countryside started to switch over to suburbs. Stillwater Road ran past many suburban communities and neighborhoods before we actually made it to the town of Currith-the largest piece of civilization in this part of Ghalad. Currith was a ramshackle, run-down place. Buildings all had chipped finishes, weakened structures, broken windows-a few had even collapsed. Most of the buildings were made of simple gray-colored polycrete. People wandered the streets, many of them carrying firearms under their jackets and shirts. Homeless people sat on the sidewalks and corners, watching our convoy rumble past with apathetic glances.

"God, this place is a shithole," Dempsey muttered, glaring through the window at a group of men who weren't even bothering to conceal their most likely illegally acquired submachine-guns. "Feels like a thunderstorm in a bottle, ready to explode." My oldest friend had started tapping his assault rifle, too. He wasn't consciously anxious, but his soldier's senses were telling him that Currith was not a UNSC-friendly environment.

"_Hang a right on the next intersection,_" McCandlish's voice crackled from the humvee's COM system.

Our little jaunt through the town took three minutes-the DIA agent's contact lived on the outskirts. Lieutenant McCandlish ordered the convoy to halt

The warthogs all spread out, covering the intersections and the surrounding block. The three humvees simply halted in front of our destination. I saw the doors on the humvee in front of us open up. Agent Rodney, Lieutenant McCandlish, and a corporal from Geoffries's squad got out and walked up to the house where the DIA agent's contact was.

"This feels off..." Dempsey murmured.

"What the fuck are we even doing here?" I asked. "We got zero details from that government guy…"

"Well…not quite zero," Devereux corrected me, casting wary glances at the people on the street outside. "I was coming back from the firing range last night, and I overheard Captain Hasegawa briefing the El-Tee in the mess hall…I didn't hear a lot, but the Captain was mentioning something about a militia group called the Liberation Front."

"Not a very imaginative name," Dempsey commented dryly.

"_Oui,_" Devereux nodded in agreement. "But nomenclature aside, apparently this 'Liberation Front' is a prevalent militia group in this area, active mostly along the eastern portion of the Avalon landmass. This province is where it seems to be based."

"Fascinating," Dempsey yawned. "Are we going to get to the point in the next hour, or should I just go to sleep?"

Devereux aimed a punch at Dempsey's eye, but my friend deflected it with his arm. Devereux retracted her fist and continued, pausing only to throw Dempsey a sidelong glare. "The Liberation Front is suspected for the recent disappearances in this area. It is a large, widespread, organized…and a _powerful_ force. Sure, the Corps would sodomize it if it ever fought us directly…but they never _do_ fight directly. They are insurgents. Apparently, the man who Agent Rodney is seeing is a member of the Liberation Front who is seeking amnesty in return for…well, whatever the New Harmony government wants."

"Hey, man…" Esposito murmured, peering out the passenger side window. "Check out those civvies on the rooftops at three o'clock."

I leaned over towards the passenger side and looked in the direction the Hispanic marine had indicated. Sure enough, there were four men hanging around on top of the four-story condominium across the street. One of them was holding something small and compact. I squinted for a closer look.

"Is that a camera he's holding?" I asked, pointing.

"Uh-huh," Dempsey nodded, looking out his window, too. "Pointing it right at us."

"_Anyone else have eyes on that roof to our right?_" a voice crackled through the COM. The Slavic accent identified it as Staff Sergeant Tirimev, who was in the lead humvee.

I hit the COM. "Affirmative, Staff Sergeant, I see 'em too."

"_I see them,_" Lieutenant McCandlish also confirmed Tirimev's last. "_Stay on 'em, but do not open fire. Last thing we need is a bloody investigation for firing on civilians_."

"Civilians, my ass," Dempsey retorted over the COM, remembering to add the honorific, "Sir," a second later.

"_Hold your fire unless provoked_. _McCandlish out_." And with that, the El-Tee killed the channel.

"That DIA suit better hurry his ass up," Dempsey grunted, glancing nervously at the groups of people who had started to gather along the opposite sidewalk. "We've got _way_ too many eyes on us."

"Agreed," I murmured, unconsciously gripping my BR55. My senses were twitching with the fervor of a spider on speed. I wanted to get out of here _now_. The Governor's martial law on this Province did not seem to be heavily enforced in these parts. I doubted that there were even any law enforcement agencies in Currith—I hadn't seen any, yet.

Well, no…in fact I _had_ seen some law enforcement…but it had been out in the countryside. Nothing in the town itself. This place was just a hotbed…the UNSC wasn't particularly popular on all of the colony worlds, and this was just one of those places where it was plain disliked, and even _hated_ by the inhabitants.

I had no idea _why_ these dumb fucks would hate the UNSC. Sure, the military had taken temporary control, and sure, it was far from a perfect system…but in the words of a wise Irishman I knew during my time as a colonial militiaman on Harvest, "The alternative is hell." Why could these people not understand that, without the UNSC, there would be nothing stopping the Covies from coming in and burning them into glass and cinders?

Of course, it was unlikely the Covies could be stopped from doing such a thing even _with_ the UNSC in the game.

There were groups of people on the sidewalk, now…all they did was stare at us. What set me on edge was that I just couldn't read them. They could have been curious, they could have been brimming with hatred…but they made it impossible to tell. The only expression they gave off was passive interest, or apathy.

"Should we disperse them?" Esposito asked.

"It wouldn't hurt," I agreed. I reached for the COM to transmit my idea to the other staff sergeants, but my hand never made it to the console.

A huge explosion rocked the entire block as the house we were visiting was suddenly engulfed in flames. I probably bruised my forehead when I smacked it on the dashboard as I instinctively ducked for cover.

"_Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell was that?_" at least five marines shouted simultaneously over the COM. The rest of the channel momentarily devolved into garbled gibberish and static.

There was another noise—a light hissing noise—followed by a second, much closer explosion. The humvee in front of us—which had luckily been empty—suddenly brewed up in an oily fireball. The smoke trail of the projectile that had hit it led straight up to the rooftop where we had seen those men with the camera. When I looked up, I could see those men handling a long, tubular weapon that was unmistakably a rocket launcher of some sort.

"_RPG on the rooftop!_" Esposito shouted, spotting them at the same time as me.

"Dempsey, get your ass on the GAU!" I ordered my friend, straightening up and hitting the humvee's ignition.

The warthogs in our convoy were pulling back. At least half of the civilians who had congregated to watch us from the sidewalks had pulled rifles and SMGs from pre-prepared spots—garbage cans, storm drains, even a stroller.

A hail of gunfire ripped through the air, many of the shots striking the side of my humvee. Dempsey did as he was told and popped the roof hatch of the humvee, standing up through the opening and grabbing the 7.62mm minigun mounted on the roof.

The minigun, when fired, sounded almost like tearing paper. The rooftop where the four men with the RPG launcher was partially disintegrated under the sudden firepower. Two of those four men were instantly cut down, a third was killed a second later, but the fourth managed to duck.

I caught sight of Agent Rodney and Lieutenant McCandlish stumbling towards the street. Both men were bloodied and burned, Agent Rodney more so. The corporal who had accompanied them was firing his rifle towards a group of the insurgents on the street.

What sounded like a sniper shot punched right through the windshield, drilling into the backseat just a few inches away from where Devereux was sitting. I threw the humvee into gear and crunched forward, putting the vehicle in between the insurgents' line of fire and my platoon leader.

"Dev! Grab the door!" I shouted back. Devereux slid to the other side of the backseat and pushed open the doors, allowing McCandlish, Rodney, and the corporal to tumble inside. It was a pretty tight fit, but it was preferable to being dead so no one really complained.

"My contact! Those bastards got to him before we did!" Agent Rodney was babbling, probably still in some measure of shock from that explosion. "Held his family hostage, strapped improvised explosives to his chest…God damn it all, they were _waiting_ for us!"

"Insurrectionists being a step ahead of the authorities…never heard of that one, before," Esposito grumbled next to me.

"Pull back! All units, pull back!" McCandlish howled into his COM. The command was unnecessary, though; all of the other warthogs were already peeling away down the road.

Dempsey kept on the fire with his minigun. The insurgents had taken cover the moment the marines had started to return fire, so it wasn't as if Dempsey was slaughtering them. He would get a lucky hit here or there, but for the most part he was simply keeping the insurgents' heads down.

I floored the accelerator. The humvee lurched forward, the wheels skidding on the sidewalks for a moment, kicking up dirt and debris. The military transport rumbled forward, knocking down a mailbox or two as we sped out onto the street. We hightailed it off that road, leaving a trail of bullet-ridden buildings, destroyed property, and sprawled corpses in our wake.

I didn't let up on the accelerator until we were well past the outskirts of Currith and rumbling through the countryside again.

When the familiar walls and guard towers of Alpha Base came into view, my death grip on the wheel finally relaxed, allowing my knuckles to regain some of their old color.

When we pulled into the motor pool, none of us in that humvee said anything to each other. We got out, dusted ourselves off, shared a quick glance with each other…and headed straight for the pub in the rec center.


	29. II Chapter 29: Disappearances

Chapter Twenty-Nine: 

**February 14, 2537 (Military Calendar) \  
New Harmony, Beta Persei System**

"So exactly what the fuck happened in there?" Dempsey quickly asked Lieutenant McCandlish, unable to contain himself any longer.

It had been three days since the botched trip into Currith. A New Harmony Federal Domestic Intelligence Agency agent had a contact in the local insurgent force, known as the 'Liberation Front'. That agent had been on his way to meet with the contact. He had gone into the house for several minutes with the El-Tee…and then the whole place suddenly blew up. McCandlish and the DIA agent had just recovered from the burns and broken bones sustained from the explosion.

"Yeah, mind telling us why that house decided to blow up with us right next to it?" Esposito interjected, sliding his breakfast tray in between mine and Banks's before sliding _himself_ in.

McCandlish didn't answer until he was finished swallowing his last bite of scrambled eggs. "It was all going normally, at first…" the El-Tee murmured, taking a swig of orange juice. "The contact let Agent Rodney and me inside. I waited by the door, but Agent Rodney went into the man's den… Now, I know they were talking about the local innies and the disappearances. Nothing interesting, you understand. Then suddenly, I hear Rodney shout. There was a scuffle, and when I checked it out, the man almost had a chokehold on Agent Rodney."

"The contact tried to kill him?" I raised an eyebrow.

McCandlish took another bite of scrambled eggs and shrugged. "He had his hands around Rodney's throat; it's safe to assume killing was _somewhere_ on his agenda," the Englishman rolled his eyes. "I pulled the wanker off the agent. Then his jacket falls off; he had enough C4 strapped to his chest to put a dent in the whole block..." the El-Tee got a faraway look in his eyes as he thought about that. He gave a low, mirthless chuckle and muttered, "He _did_ put a dent in the whole block... I clocked the bastard in the face, got Rodney onto his feet, and ran my arse out the door…the bomb vest went off right before we got out…I still have burns on my back from that son of a bitch."

"You are a lucky bastard, you know that?" Dempsey chuckled. "When the innies fired an RPG at us, it hit your humvee, which had been empty. If it had hit either of the other ones..."

"Well, better burned than blown to kibble, I suppose," the El-Tee shrugged, returning his full attention to the breakfast in front of him. The rest of us did likewise, putting the kibosh on the usual conversation. Sure, we had exchanged nods with Death once again, but that was never a good topic of conversation to bring up. Especially not during a meal.

The klaxon wailed throughout the entire firebase as we walked out of the mess hall, ready to face yet another day of routine and repetition.

Marine life was pretty bipolar, now that I thought about it. Either you spent day after day bored as shit with nothing to do…or you spent day after day trying to accomplish the difficult task of not dying while Covies cooked the air all around you with superheated plasma. There was no middle ground between the two extremes. Aristotle wouldn't have been happy.

"_Alpha Company, report to the motor pool,_" the voice said throughout the PA system.

"Oh, Christ, what _now?_" Banks snapped. "We already risked our necks this week, why can't they have some other company go?"

"Because we're the only full-strength company in the firebase," Devereux replied. "Bravo Company is out on patrol north of Currith, and Delta and Charlie Companies are having squads sent out to reconnoiter the coastal fishing villages later this afternoon. That just leaves jolly old us."

McCandlish herded us towards the motor pool. As we joined the rest of the company, I looked for the DIA agents who would be accompanying us. Agent Rodney was absent—he had been more seriously wounded than McCandlish—but there were seven other DIA men present. They were not dressed in black suits, however. They looked more like SWAT operatives with their battle armor on.

"_Will everyone kindly shut the hell up!_" Gunny Stisen barked, silencing the throng of Alpha Company marines.

Captain Hasegawa, who had been standing in the passenger seat of a warthog, started to speak after we fell quiet. "Gentlemen, local dispatches have just picked up emergency calls coming in from an isolated community about five klicks southwest of our current location. We may have another one of these disappearances happening as we speak. Gunfire has been reported, so we're going in armed and ready for anything. The rebs are not getting away this time. Mount up!"

I wasn't driving, this time. Instead, I hopped into the back of a transport 'hog along with half my squad. Dempsey rode in another warthog with the other half. The entire company quickly mounted up and sped out of the firebase, tearing down the roads towards the place where the emergency calls were coming in.

I slapped a fresh mag into my BR55, rubbing down the stock and barrel of the rifle with an oil rag. I then forced myself to put the weapon down onto my lap. My nervous tick was to tinker with my weapon—constantly adjusting the sights, cleaning it, checking the ammunition, etc. Better to just be patient and wait. Not that I was looking forward to any action, but still…it would really be nice to catch these 'Liberation Front' innies red-handed in the disappearances. Then we could break them.

I could see the smoke in the distance as we drew close to our destination.

"Looks like the Innies have been through here already," Singh observed, squinting as he watched the smoke.

The convoy continued along the back roads and up the hill until we finally rumbled into the suburban community where the emergency call had come from. It was a small, isolated place; probably around twenty or thirty homes. A few police cruisers were already in the neighborhood. Half a dozen or so officers were questioning residents and cordoning off the area around the burning house.

The smoke's source was the home at the far end of the street—the most isolated home of this isolated community. Most of the home had burned to the ground. All that was left was glowing red embers, pieces of floorboards and tiling, husks that may once have been furniture—all the features of…well, of a burned home.

"I'm Detective Fisher, Ghalad Provincial Police," the inspector in charge of the scene introduced himself to Captain Hasegawa as we powered down our convoy and dismounted.

"Captain Hiroshi Hasegawa, A Company CO, 9th Force Recon," the Captain introduced himself to the inspector in charge. "We are acting under the authority of Governor Montgomery. I understand there are Insurrectionists in the area?"

Detective Fisher shrugged. "There _were_. They just vanished into thin air…the Downey home went up in flames, we get here within three minutes, and the Downeys are gone, along with the perpetrators. Neighbors gave us reports of gunfire during the…during the…_whatever_ happened…" Detective Fisher gave a hapless shrug, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I haven't the slightest idea how the rebs could have gotten away so fast. Satellite coverage didn't even pick up any heat signatures in the area, besides the other residents, of course."

As Hasegawa and the inspector continued to converse, the company divided into platoons. Lieutenant McCandlish led us up the street towards the burned-down house. A police officer accompanied us, outlining the situation.

"You boys already know what happened here," the policeman grunted. "That house was the home of John and Melissa Downey, as well as their eight-year-old daughter—all of whom are missing."

"We'll see if missing means 'gone without a trace'," McCandlish muttered. "Garris, get your men around the grounds of that house. Look for any signs of abduction and see if you can pick up a trail. Tirimev, I want a…"

I didn't stick around for the rest of McCandlish's spiel. I gathered my squad and set off towards the burnt house. A faint rumble of thunder boomed in the distance. I glanced up at the cloudy sky, noting the storm front moving in from the west. "We'll have to find what we need to find before we get rained out," I sighed.

There wasn't anything to find, though. Nothing overt, at least. A few of my men noted a strange, faint, lingering odor in some areas…but nothing other than that. Dempsey, Esposito, and I made our way through the underbrush around the house's property.

We searched relentlessly for around two hours, looking for any sign of the people who had kidnapped the Downey family.

The thunderstorm was getting pretty close. I wasn't afraid of getting struck by lightning or anything, nothing like that. My only concern was that when it started raining, the crime scene would be compromised.

It was so small a detail that most of us missed it. Ultimately, it was 'Lucky Larry' Eldridge, a marine who was infamous for his perfectionism and attention to every single detail of his uniform and weapon, who found it. His nickname, 'Lucky Larry', had been given to him after he earned the distinction of being the only member of Alpha Company to make it through the Siege of Cedar Rapids without a scratch. That was an extraordinary stroke of luck.

Looking back on my time with the Corps, I survived the disaster at Harvest, the subsequent five-year campaign, the Insurrection at Mamore, as well as another couple of groundside campaigns on other colonies. I was about as lucky as they came...and _I_ got hit in Cedar Rapids at least three times. Lucky Larry Eldridge was an enigma to the rest of us.

"Sirs! Sirs!" Eldridge was shouting, waving to Tirimev, his squad leader. I was nearby with Lieutenant McCandlish, so we decided to head on over and take a look as well. When we got over to Eldridge, we found him holding what looked like a breathing apparatus-the kind scuba-divers put in their mouths. It had been lying in a patch of ferns. It was metallic, but it hadn't rusted. In a somewhat humid climate such as this, that meant it hadn't been out here for very long.

"I'm not even going to ask how you found that..." Tirimev grunted. "Bag that object and give it to one of the DIA agents. They can run a DNA test and find out who this belongs to. From there, they can probably-"

"Don't bother," I shook my head.

"I beg your pardon?" Tirimev didn't sound too pleased at being interrupted.

I crouched down and examined some of the ferns that the breathing apparatus had been found in. A few of them were stained blue. When I looked up at the tree the apparatus was in front of, there were a few more spots of that same blue substance. It seemed almost luminescent; had it been nighttime, those stains probably would have glowed faintly. I knew that substance anywhere. It was blood.

"I don't think the UNSC keeps DNA records of grunts," McCandlish stated.

It all made horrible, clear sense. The disappearances, the attacks... I remembered the inspector mentioning how the satellites hadn't even picked up the perpetrators' heat signatures fleeing the area. Well, grunts _had_ no heat signatures...or if they did, it was much, _much_ lower than that of a human's. On a UNSC thermal imaging screen, they would have blended in with the rest of the environment.

Then I remembered that faint smell. It had been very faint, but it had been a distinct odor...almost like a small leak in a propane hose. I would be willing to be that that smell had been the vestiges of the methane gas that grunts breathed.

"I'm going to report this to Captain Hasegawa," McCandlish started heading back up the hill towards the community. "I'm sure Governor Montgomery will be interested to know that the Liberation Front has not been responsible for these disappearances...we have bloody Covies on the planet."

My heart sank to the region of my knees, and as I slung my BR55 over my shoulder and trudged uphill after the El-Tee, the only thing going through my mind was, _Here we go again_...


	30. II Chapter 30: Following the Breadcrumbs

Chapter Thirty: Following the Breadcrumbs

**February 14, 2537 (Military Calendar) \  
New Harmony, Beta Persei System**

_Here we go again_.

This wasn't the first time I had had that thought. I had that thought on the UNSC _Spirit of Fire_ when I had been about to deploy onto Harvest. I had that thought that thought on Tempore IV, when the Covenant Fleet jumped us and glassed half the planet before we could pull ourselves together and retreat before they glassed the other half. I had that thought when plasma started falling from the sky on Charybdis IX. That thought had come to me not too long ago when I learned that I was heading for Verus III.

And now, I was having that same thought again, here on New Harmony, as I forged on ahead through the woods. My squad was fanned out on both sides, the rest of the platoon behind me. We were following an ARGUS drone into the Blue Hills.

ARGUS drones are interesting pieces of technology. In essence, they are sniffer drones; they can, with micro-laser spectrometers, detect chemical compounds logged into their databanks. They had been primarily used before the War against Insurrectionist bomb-makers, being able to sniff out the chemical compounds used to make explosives.

With the discovery of Grunt blood back at the burned-down Downey home, the revelation that there were Covies on the planet had been quickly driven home to Governor Montgomery and the commanding generals of the 16th Expeditionary Unit, and an ARGUS unit had been rushed down here to the southeastern Ghalad Province. Our orders were to find concrete evidence of the Covies' presence before Command would declare WINTER CONTINGENCY on New Harmony.

If grunts had been in the area—and they _had_—the ARGUS drone would be able to sniff out the traces of methane that they breathed. This would allow us to follow them to wherever they had come from.

I flicked a drop of rain off of my glove as we moved down the hillside towards a meadow.

"We getting any closer?" Dempsey grumbled. We had been walking for a good twenty minutes with no comment from the ARGUS.

Corporal Higgens, the technician the ARGUS had been sent with, said, "The methane traces are getting more concentrated," the tech reported. "We're definitely getting closer."

"You think we'll find those missing civvies?" Singh asked.

"Fuck no," Esposito shook his head.

"With Covies involved, we'll find the _dead_ civvies," I clarified.

"You don't know for certain that they're dead…"

Dempsey rounded on the new marine with a vengeance. "Did you misunderstand something the Staff Sergeant said, fresh meat? Do you know more about Covies from your little boot camp classes at Needle Point than we know from over a fucking _decade_ of fighting them?"

The replacement pursed his lips and remained silent. A wise move on his part.

Veterans were not intentionally assholes to replacements…it was just that replacements tended to die rather easily. Why make a friend with someone who you know will most likely be dead in a month?

No, Singh would have to survive a campaign to prove his worth.

Looking back on it, I suppose I sort of bypassed that process of acceptance. When I joined my first unit—the 714th Infantry Regiment—during the five-year Harvest Campaign, I was already recognized as one of the Harvest Militia, who had managed to evacuate most of Harvest's population against all odds. I had already proven myself.

"ARGUS confirms methane concentrations about half a klick ahead…across the meadow, sir," Higgens reported.

"Platoon, form up," McCandlish ordered. We quickly shifted from our loose formation into a tightened battle formation; my squad hooked out and formed the right flank.

We advanced slowly across the meadow, watching as the ARGUS drone reported more and more concentrations of methane. We were definitely getting close.

It wasn't until after we were halfway up the hill beyond the meadow that Technician Higgens stopped us. "The trail just…it's gone. I don't know what could have-"

"It ain't gone," a marine from Geoffries's squad on the left remarked. "It went _down_."

Marines wandered over to where the one person had spoken, and the answer was pretty obvious. The trail _did_ go down, getting fainter on the ARGUS's spectrometer as we climbed higher up the hill. A large, cavernous cave mouth yawned out of the hillside, obscured by numerous formations of granite and loose boulders. That was where the methane trail went.

I looked at the cave entrance with varying amounts of frustration. "You've got to be shitting me," I grumbled. Of all the places the methane trail could lead us, it had to go to a _cave_. Joy and fucking rapture.

"I'll go in," Lieutenant McCandlish stepped into the cave entrance. "Who the hell is coming with me?"

Tirimev, Geoffries, and I stepped forward at the same time, I'm not too ashamed to say. All three squad leaders ready to follow the El-Tee inside. As I mentioned before, an officer is a hell of a lot more likely to get men to follow him if he leads the way. McCandlish at least seemed to understand this. Provided he didn't stop a plasma charge, I think it was safe to guess that the Englishman would climb the ranks like rungs on a ladder. Of course, that was a huge _if_.

"_Mm,_ that's very touching, but I'm not taking all of you," the El-Tee grunted. He swept his gaze between the squad leaders and quickly made his choice. "Tirimev; you're with me. Garris, Geoffries; make sure nothing gives us an unpleasant surprise from the rear."

I ignored Esposito, who snickered his usual "_That's what she said,_" under his breath, and snapped the El-Tee a salute. "Good luck, sir."

"Save it," McCandlish replied. The El-Tee then turned on his heel and vanished into the darkness of the cave. Staff Sergeant Tirimev and his squad walked in after him, their weapons raised and at the ready. Though I had been as ready to be heading down that cave behind McCandlish as Tirmev's squad had been...I didn't envy them.

"Squad, I want a defensive perimeter, twenty-meter spread," I ordered, working with Staff Sergeant Geoffries. Our two squads hunkered down behind the rocks and boulders that were littered about the hillside, leveling our weapons and getting ready for anything inhuman to give us a house-call.

There was dead silence for the first five minutes or so, but soon marines started chatting with one another. I didn't clamp down on them; as long as they kept it down to a murmur, I really didn't mind.

"I guess that 'feeling' of yours was right, after all," I said to Devereux, returning to our boulder after making my rounds. "First we run into Innies in Currith, now we may have found Covies."

"We're having a lucky streak, that's all," Devereux chuckled.

"A streak?" I raised an eyebrow at that. "We're two for two. What could possibly come next? Demons?"

"Probably not demons."

"What about..." I thought for a second, loosening the mental cap I had secured over my imagination. "What about...oh, never mind. I've got nothing."

"Some sort of parasitic virus that turns people into zombies? How about that?" Banks suggested from the next boulder over.

Dempsey let out a loud bark of laughter. "Parasitic viruses? Common, Rob, you're starting to think like a freakin'-"

Whatever Dempsey was going to say next was lost to the ether, because at that moment the ground shook, stopping all conversation. I heard the muffled _BOOM_ of an explosion that could only have come from underground.

"What the fuck?" Banks muttered, adjusting his grip on his MA5B.

Another explosion rocked the earth. This one sounded closer; the vestiges of the sound echoed up through the cave. Instantly, all of us whipped around, aiming our weapons at the cave entrance.

For a full minute, no one moved. The explosions continued, causing dust particles to fall across the cave entrance, creating almost a veil of brown air. Thinking back on it, considering how on edge all of us had been, it's a miracle we didn't open fire when Lucky Larry Eldridge came rocketing out of the cave entrance as if the devil himself were on his heels. Maybe Lucky Larry just got lucky again.

"What the-" a marine started to say, but he was cut off by a dozen more marines sprinting out after Lucky Larry. They were all shouting at the top of their lungs.

"Run, you sons of bitches! _RUN!_" a private screamed.

Tirimev's squad didn't stop outside of the cave; they just kept on running, heading out into the meadow.

Last to emerge was Lieutenant McCandlish. His battle armor was scuffed and dented, and he had several cuts on his cheek. His greeting was not so different from that of Tirimev and his men. "Fall the fuck back! Move it, _move it!_"

I exchanged a quick glance with Dempsey. We both gave a discreet nod. Less than a second later, I was pounding my way down the hillside towards the meadow, running for all I was worth, shouting for my squad to get moving. I had no idea what was coming, but if it had McCandlish, an _officer_, running and swearing like an enlisted man, it couldn't have been anything good.

And it wasn't. No sooner had my squad reached the meadow when not two, but _four_ Hunters came bursting out of the cave, their shoulder cannons ablaze. Crackling green bolts of energy slammed into the tall grass, sending smoke and dirt flying in every direction.

Yeah. Covies were _definitely_ on New Harmony.

Lieutenant McCandlish was screaming at Captain Hasegawa over the COM, but I couldn't make out his words. My blood pumping through my ears would have made it hard to hear by itself; add running for your life to the mix, and things got pretty hairy.

I didn't even bother to fire at the Covie behemoths. I had seen entire platoons of marines open fire on one of those things, and the Hunters had just shrugged the gunfire off like a loose jacket. Unless you had heavy weapons of some sort, the only option left was to run your ass away. And that was precisely what we were doing.

The only drawback was that Hunters, once properly motivated, could outrun most men.

There was a loud crack from a sniper rifle and one of the behemoths jerked back, a handful of orange slop spraying out of its armor. It was only pissed off, though. It let out a thundering roar and redoubled its pace.

There was a loud explosion somewhere off to my right. I saw a woman go flying, landing in a heap several yards further ahead. Two of her comrades helped her up and supported her as they struggled to make it across the field.

The Hunters caught up to us about two-thirds of the way across the meadow. However…the universe lately has seemed to have this sick sense of humor; throwing all of these harrowing, near-death situations into my life, but never following through and _killing_ me. That principle seemed to be holding up for today as well.

I swore under my breath, unslinging my BR55 and aiming it at the general area of the Hunter's 'head'. But even as I fired, I knew something wasn't right. There was some sort of loud humming noise coming from my rifle.

When I stopped firing, I realized that it wasn't my rifle.

The Hunter leveled its shoulder cannon at my squad and…vanished. A warthog came barreling out of nowhere, smashing the Hunter out of the way, sending little bits of the orange eel-like things out of which they were made all over the place. Normally Hunters were impregnable to anything short of a rocket or a well-aimed heavy MG…but even these resilient Covie behemoths could not stand up to three tons of UNSC warthog going at one hundred-twenty kilometers per hour. That Hunter was down for the count.

Five more warthogs emerged from the woods at the other end of the meadow, their M41 LAAG turrets ablaze. Everyone hit the dirt; it was unlikely the gunners on the turrets would accidentally hit one of us…but it paid to be careful.

The other three Hunters roared in pain as the heavy slugs pinged and dented off their armor. They stood up to the storm of lead for the first few seconds, but the sheer volume of firepower being vented onto them eventually overcame even their armor. Their softer underbodies disintegrated under the heavy firepower.

We waited in the meadow for more Covies to show up…but none did. It had just been those four Hunters.

Captain Hasegawa drove his warthog—its hood all dented and banged up from ramming that Hunter—up to us, killing the engine and hopping out. He snapped a salute to the marines around me. We all returned the gesture with varying amounts of enthusiasm.

"Lieutenant McCandlish, will you accompany me?" the Japanese man asked, gesturing to the empty passenger seat in his military jeep. "I think we have a report that needs sending."

"Yes, sir," McCandlish nodded, circling around into the passenger seat of Hasegawa's warthog. He pointed at me as the Captain climbed back into the driver's seat. "Garris; get the boys back up to the community and await further orders. Tirimev…find the XO and Gunny Stisen and brief them on what we found. Fall out!"

With that, the Captain and El-Tee sped off back towards the community. No doubt they were going to break the sound barrier getting back to Alpha Base to report to Colonel Ndebele about the presence of Covies on New Harmony. A report like that would climb through the levels up to Command faster than fire up the length of a bamboo stick soaked in gasoline. Then WINTER CONTINGENCY would be declared, and we would find out how deep the shit we were in was.

"Hey, Alec," I said to Staff Sergeant Tirimev. "What the hell happened down there? What were Hunters doing in a cave?"

"It wasn't a cave," Tirimev muttered. "It was an entrance." The other squad leader didn't say anything more after I waited for him to continue for a few seconds.

"Do I look like I can read minds?" I finally huffed. "An entrance to _what?_"

"Don't know how to accurately describe it…" Tirimev murmured. "A gigantic cavern…several miles in diameter, at least… The Covies had a full-blown military base down there."

"Covies setting up underground bases? For what?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know, huh?" Tirimev shrugged. "I don't care; long as we destroy it, it doesn't matter why they're crawling around down there."

I digested this as we made our way up the hills towards the community. This had certainly just gotten a little more interesting.


	31. II Chapter 31: Generator Malfunction

Chapter Thirty-One: Generator Malfunction

**February 15, 2537 (Military Calendar) \  
New Harmony, Beta Persei System**

We all sat in the mess hall of Alpha Base. It wasn't just my platoon, or even my company; the entire battalion had gathered for the briefing Colonel Ndebele was running.

The Colonel stood in front of all of us, standing next to a large holo-screen that had been set up along the mess hall's long wall. "Marines…" the Colonel began. "We came to New Harmony to stand down after fighting a hard fight on Verus III. You boys have been through a lot, and I couldn't be any prouder than I already am to have the honor of being your CO…but I'm afraid something has come up."

I grunted under my breath. That was _one_ way of putting it…

A high-resolution topographical image of what looked different layers of New Harmony's crust appeared on the screen. It appeared in an array of different colors representing something I didn't know. The most curious feature was a large void where there was no color.

"This image was taken from a deep sonar probe fired down the Antilles Fault," the Colonel explained. "The colors show the variation in density of the rock…or something along those lines. I am a battalion commander, not a geologist. Yesterday, as I'm sure all of you already know, Lieutenant McCandlish led a recon op down a cave during the response call at that community Alpha Company was called away to. As it turns out, it was not a cave; it was a _tunnel_…a tunnel that led to a massive cavern burned out of the bedrock by the Covies, and they have a full military base down there. That is our part of the situation in a nutshell."

"What do you mean 'our part'?" one of the other captains asked. "We have Covies in an underground cavern in the southeastern Ghalad Province, which explains all of the disappearances. What more could there be?"

"Two things," the Colonel replied. "First: the Ghalad Provinces is where the _most_ disappearances have been occurring. Turns out, similar disappearances have been reported in twenty or so other locations around the world," the Colonel snapped his fingers, and the image of the crust where McCandlish had discovered the Covenant cavern zoomed out until we had a full view of New Harmony in its entirety. Around twenty amber dots illuminated specific locations on the planet, presumably the sites of the disappearances Ndebele had been referring to.

"And second: after connecting those Covies to the disappearances here in the Ghalad Province, New Harmony's geological department decided to, under supervision of our own commanders, send down probes in those locations as well. And, wouldn't you believe it, we discovered similar caverns in every target location."

To emphasize the Colonel's point, the image of New Harmony grew transparent, showing all of the voids in the crust that represented the artificial caverns dug by the Covies for…God knew what.

"Do we know why the Covies have been implanting themselves in the ground all over the globe?" a lieutenant asked. "It's not like them. Usually they just come in guns blazing."

"When do we _ever_ know why the Covenant does what it does?" Colonel Ndebele shrugged. "I do not know why the Covies have secret bases all over New Harmony; and to be frank, I really don't care. The only thing I care about is making sure those bases are reduced to scrap metal by the end of the week."

"_Hoo-ah,_" a number of marines murmured in agreement.

"Now that we know where the Covies are, we aren't going to sit around with our thumbs up our asses and wait to get slapped," the Colonel declared. "We have a better plan in mind; we are going to take the fire to the Covenant. We're going to go down into those damn holes of theirs and we're going to give them all a one-way ticket to the afterlife. A millennium ago, during the Enlightenment, there were two famous philosophers: John Locke, and Thomas Hobbs. Locke argued that Mankind was good-natured at heart; that we would always revert to good over evil. Hobbs, however... Hobbs believed that Humans, once given the opportunity and freedom to do so, would revert to cruelty and violence. A bit of a pessimist, you could say," Colonel Ndebele fixed us all with his trademark Zulu glare. "Well, boys, even though the Covies have no idea who Thomas Hobbs was...by the time we're finished with them, they will see that he was absolutely right."

* * *

The fleet of falcons, hornets, and pelicans almost looked like a flock of odd-shaped birds to an observer looking up from the ground. To me, it looked...well, like a fleet of falcons, hornets, and pelicans. No better way to describe it.

I clicked my lighter and lit my latest cigarette, taking those first few puffs to get the thing started. When Dempsey gestured with a cig of his own, I reached over and around Devereux and Esposito and lit his as well.

There were six of us on this falcon-about half of my squad. Devereux, Esposito, Banks, and Singh all sat on the benches in the fore and aft of the troop bay. Dempsey and I had pulled rank on the others so that we could grab the door turrets.

Well, _door_ turrets was an inaccurate name; falcons _had_ no doors. Just open sides. The troop bay was more open space than troop bay; that was why I personally preferred pelicans. But these hunks of titanium were better still than hornets. I _hated_ hornets; all you had was a small square of padding to crouch on, a metal railing to hold onto, and whatever prayers you could muster to your God in order to not get thrown off. The rest, ultimately, was in the hands of the pilot.

The UNSC Army had been kind enough to lend us the falcons it had stored in the yards on New Harmony. Some general must have called in a favor or something, because marines were usually stuck with those piece-of-shit hornets.

"Coming up on five minutes ETA!" the pilot of the falcon shouted back to us. "If y'all got any prayers you want to be sayin', you better get 'em done quick!"

I quickly checked over my BR55 one last time before trusting that I had properly cared for it. I left it on my shoulder and grabbed the handles of the turret, priming it.

It had been raining pretty hard in this area for most of the day; with our rapid forward movement in these aircraft, that rain now felt like small pebbles being pelted at my face. I found myself wishing I had a full faceplate for my helmet, like the ODSTS.

"You boys ready for this?" I shouted to the others in the troop bay.

I was greeted with a chorus of, "_No,_" "_Fuck you,_" and several other choice answers. Well, I can't fault them for lying. The three stripes and rocker on my shoulders was the only thing keeping me from agreeing with them.

"Two minutes!" the pilot hollered back.

"So what's the plan supposed to be?" Dempsey shouted to be heard over the rain and the falcon's engine. Those chopper blades up top made quite a bit of noise. "Brass said we were supposed to be dropping in; they never said how the fuck we were supposed to get _into_ the caverns! I'm not going into that cave we found two days ago!"

"I think we'll find out once we get there!" I shrugged. "Using the tunnels isn't practical; can you imagine how long it would take to get a whole fucking _battalion_ in through those things? Nearly a thousand men, going in squad by squad? It would be a nightmare!"

"I heard the Navy was getting involved somehow!" Devereux interjected. "There's a destroyer or a frigate, or something else in orbit!"

"I'm serious; where the fuck do you find out these things?" Dempsey snapped. "Do you sleep with someone on the General Staff? Is that how you know about everything that goes on during our ops?"

"She better not!" I grunted from my turret. "I don't think I would be able to-"

I was interrupted by another warning from the pilot. This time, he gave the thirty-second warning. I looked down and recognized the general countryside of the Blue Hills, which was where my platoon had accidentally discovered the Covenant firebase in the subterranean cavern.

What was different about the countryside from the last time we had visited was the fact that a small part of it looked as if it had been strip mined. Someone up at Command had pulled some strings, and the area above part of the subterranean cavern had been cleared out and dug down for about a thousand feet. It wasn't too large of an area, but big enough to fit several large houses into it.

"_All units, hold position_," an older voice ordered over the COM. "_Wait for the signal_."

Banks had just enough time to ask "What's the signal?" when a tremendous explosion reverberated through the sky, making the falcon rattle from the shockwave.

I saw a brief flash right before the dug-out portion of the hills vanished in a cloud of smoke and debris. The only thing short of a nuke that could have caused an explosion like that would have to have been a MAC round…and then I remembered Devereux mentioning the Navy getting involved in our op. She had been right once again.

"_Ho-lee shit!_" Esposito whooped, watching as the smoke cleared away to reveal a gaping hole in the ground. The MAC round had punched through to the upper reaches of the cavern we had found earlier.

"_All units, move in,_" that same older voice ordered over the COM once more.

"Hold onto your lunches, boys!" the pilot warned us as he opened up on the throttle. The falcon's thrusters fired up, propelling the aircraft forward at a much faster rate. The craft actually tilted forward a bit from the acceleration, but not enough to send anyone flying.

We weren't the first to go into the hole, but we weren't in the rear of the fleet, either. My stomach fluttered as we started plunging down towards the forced entrance of the cavern, but nothing actually made it up my throat. I held onto the turret with one hand, stubbornly smoking the rest of my cig with the other.

"_We're in, we're in!_" several different pilots were shouting at the same time. The channel became laden with dozens of different people conversing with one another until the older, authoritative voice came on and ordered them off the open channel.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness of the cavern as we descended through the hole the MAC round had made. At first, I could see nothing, but then I was able to make out a dim glow a little ways further down.

"Get those guns ready, back there!" the pilot called back again.

I saw that we seemed to be only in an offshoot of the main cavern, because when we reached that glow, it had been coming from around a fold in the rock. We rounded the corner and immediately saw the Covie shield.

It acted almost like those large energy shields Covies would use to cover outposts or communication hubs…only several hundred times larger. I could only imagine how much juice was required to power a thing like that.

Now that the rain was gone and we weren't flying so fast, we no longer had to shout to make ourselves heard. I took another drag from my cigarette which, miraculously, had not been lost or even extinguished by our bumpy ride in.

I looked in wonder at the mammoth cavern system the Covies had created. It was several miles in diameter; much larger than the probe scans had indicated. You could fit a large town in a place like this. When I wondered how the Covies could have had a place like this without New Harmony's government finding out, it occurred to me that, with a war for the very survival of Humanity going on, scientists probably no longer devoted time to scanning the subterranean layers of the crust. There were more important things to be done, and who would have thought the Covies would set up secret bases? That was unlike them in so many ways.

"And just how the fuck are we supposed to get inside that thing?" Dempsey muttered, gesturing at the pulsing energy shield with his head.

The answer came in the form of an EMP pulse. One of the pelicans must have swooped down low and dropped an EMP charge down directly through the shield and onto the shield generator. That was the thing about those shields; objects could pass through them at a low velocity; i.e. bullets, for example, or plasma charges could not penetrate it-and something like a falcon or a pelican could not get through the shield without losing power, which would result in a crash. Something like an EMP bomb could pass through unmolested, detonate, short out the generator for a few seconds, and allow several ships a chance to slip through.

That was what happened now. When the EMP blast hit the shield generator, the pulsing energy dome winked out, leaving the cavern illuminated only by the thousands of plasma torches that had been set up around the cavern, as well as the purple and turquoise lights used by the Covies in their little base.

The moment the shield went down, the pilot of our falcon threw the craft forward almost into a dive. My stomach did flip-flops as we rapidly lost altitude, plummeting towards the Covie base. As I watched the base grow nearer, I saw that it was modeled like some sort of Covenant version of a town. There were methane hubs where grunts would literally 'chill out', living quarters for the Elites as well as the jackals. Dozens of Engineers floated around the base, doing their daily jobs. There was what looked like an airstrip, but the banshees on it were inactive until their pilots arrived. The whole set-up took up most of the cavern; there were easily a thousand Covenant down here. Numerically, we were somewhat evenly matched.

My falcon had been one of the closest aircraft to the Covie shield. When it went down, we were among the small group that were able to get inside the perimeter. The vast majority of our little fleet hung back at a safe distance.

Alarms were going off like crazy in the Covie compound. Elites and jackals were running this way and that. The split-chin bastards were warbling orders at the tops of their lungs, distributing weapons and gear, directing grunts and jackals to their posts. As I watched how organized the whole scene was, I knew that the Covies down here must have prepared for the eventuality of their location being discovered by jolly old us. Doubtless they hadn't anticipated a whole battalion of marines coming down on their heads-New Harmony had been relatively demilitarized before our arrival-but they had drilled nonetheless. We would not be facing surprised Covies.

Hunters could be heard roaring and stirring from their resting places. Bolts of sizzling green energy lanced through the air all around us. I crossed my fingers, hoping with every fiber of my being that we didn't get hit. The pilot dodged the fuel rod shots, swerving this way and that. The other ships that had gotten through the shield were all hornets, so they broke off and started executing quick strafing runs over hotspots in order to take some of the heat off of us. Our falcon was the best ship avaiable to take down the generator.

"How are we supposed to blow that thing up?" Esposito exclaimed, holding onto the sseat railings for dear life.

"Head for the center, look for something that looks important, and shoot it!" Dempsey yelled back. "Works every time!"

"They should have briefed us on-" Singh started to say, but Dempsey cut him off.

"You're a marine, new meat, not a toddler!" my friend snapped. "Does Command need to hold your hand?"

"Alright, I'm going in for a pass! Make those shots count!" the pilot informed us.

I gripped the turret, holding my cigarette firmly between my teeth as I primed the heavy gun. The ground whizzed by as the falcon accelerated towards the upper end of its speed capability. More and more green fuel rod shots streaked through the air as the Covies tried to knock us out of the sky. By now, they must have guessed at what we were trying to do.

Hard as they tried, the Covies did not knock us down before we reached the generator. The shield generator was a large, towering purple structure with three or four tiers. Plasma cannons lined the outside and roof of the structure, and the grunts manning them all opened fire as we got close.

I heard the roar of the falcon's forward chain gun as the pilot returned fire, strafing the defenders. I could almost hear the cries of the unfortunate grunts and jackals as they were cut up by the falcon's forward cannons.

When the pilot flew the falcon over the generator, Dempsey and I both opened fire with our M247H mounted door turrets, ripping up the one side of the generator complex with our lead. One of the plasma charges from those cannons score a hit on the falcon's armor next to my door, but other than that, we were unscathed.

As the pilot banked for another pass, Dempsey was able to continue firing. My side was turned away from the generator, so I no longer had a shot. No matter; I simply waited somewhat patiently for the pilot to straighten out his trajectory, at which point I resumed my fire on the Covies off to the side of the generator.

"I'm goin' in for a landing, y'hear?" the pilot shouted back. "Take that generator down; I'll cover y'all from up here!"

"Affirmative!" I acknowledged the pilot's order. "Banks, Devereux; take the turrets! Everyone else, on me!"

When the falcon hovered down to at least ten feet, I jumped. As I hit the ground, I crouched all the way down, absorbing the shock of landing. Dempsey hit the dirt next to me, quickly followed by Esposito and Singh.

"Move, move, _move!_" Dempsey barked, getting the others into formation as I advanced on the shield complex. The falcon was back up in the air and pumping lead into the Covie defenders, but it could get all of them.

I raised my BR55 and fired, dropping one of the grunts manning the plasma cannons. Another grunt slid in to take the first one's place, but it met the same fate. An Elite Minor was waiting for us in one of the entrances into the shield generator, one of those larger plasma rifles clutched in its hands. Plasma _repeaters_, I think they called them.

Dempsey solved the problem with a well-aimed frag. It detonated, driving the Elite back several steps, its shield winking out. Singh riddled it with lead the moment its shields were down, spraying purplish blood all over the walls of the structure until the Elite pitched forward, dead.

"Move up! Get inside!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, gesturing madly towards the shield structure. I fired off another burst towards the plasma cannon aimed at our approach, discouraging anything from manning it for the next few seconds.

A pair of jackals greeted us as we moved through the entrance. I fired a burst at one of them through the chink in the shield's side, striking the jackal in the leg. It faltered, and Esposito dropped it with a shot from his MA5B. The other jackal managed to loose off a few shots with its plasma pistol before Banks silenced it with a well-placed shot. Singh stumbled, clutching his side.

"Singh is hit!" Dempsey alerted the rest of us. He gripped the Indian marine's shoulder, turning him around. "You alright, kid?"

"Yeah!" the replacement nodded hesitantly, regaining his balance and hefting his M7. "Yeah, it just nicked the armor…I'm fine…"

"Then you have no excuse to be standing there like a jackass! Let's _move!_" Dempsey roared.

I led the way down the short hallway and through one of the second openings that led into a central chamber. The central chamber was cylindrical, extending all the way up to the actual generator of the shield several hundred feet above. A flight of energy ramps encircled the interior of this chamber. In the middle of the chamber was a large pillar of what looked like a thin layer of armor protecting what could only be the power core of the energy shield protecting the entire Covie base.

"How do we shut the goddamn thing off?" Banks exclaimed.

"Easy!" Dempsey replied, shouldering his assault rifle and emptying half his clip into the transparent wall separating us from the power source. It didn't break through, but the sixty shredder rounds from his MA5B did a number on that part of the wall's integrity. Three hits from his rifle butt shattered the armor, which seemed to have only been reinforced glass. None of us bothered to question the Covenant's wisdom of using _glass_ of all things to guard something so important; when the Universe made things easy, you just rolled with it.

Dempsey pulled one of his frag grenades from his shoulder and primed it, chucking it through the hole he had created in the protective wall around the glowing power core. "Fire in the hole!" he cried, spinning around and sprinting for the entrance.

"I did the same. "It's probably gonna blow like the scarabs do!" I shouted, herding Singh and Banks after Dempsey. "Everyone out!"

The grenade detonated as we ran out the entrance. An alarm reverberated throughout the inside of the structure and the huge energy shield spanning the entire Covie base flickered. When we ducked behind a cluster of stalagmites around ten meters away, the whole fucking thing vanished in a mushroom of roiling orange and yellow flames. Bits of debris went flying all over the place, some of them hitting uncomfortably close to our position.

The most noticeable change was the sudden disappearance of the glowing energy shield. It was as if someone had simply thrown as switch—the moment the generator went ka-blooey, the shield just vanished.

I looked down the knoll that the shield generator had been perched on, watching as the Elites mustered the base's garrison. Several units of Covie warriors were already sprinting for our position. I tightened my grip on my BR55, allowing myself a small smile as the dozens of other falcons, pelicans, and hornets started to come in for their descent.

The 9th Force Recon was going back to war.


	32. II Chapter 32: Cleaning the Basement

Chapter Thirty-Two: Cleaning the Basement

**February 15, 2537 (Military Calendar) \  
New Harmony, Beta Persei System**

"Keep it tight, Alpha!" Captain Hasegawa was shouting at the top of his lungs.

Bright flashes pulsed in the distance as our aircraft pounded the crap out of the Covie airstrips. Once the flyboys had dropped us onto the ground, they had instantly broken off to put the Covie garrison's banshees out of commission.

For my part, I was busy leading my squad through part of the Covie firebase that looked like a cluster of barracks buildings. Lieutenant McCandlish had been ordered by the Captain to clear out this section of the firebase while the rest of the company pressed on ahead and took on the defenders who were retreating towards the Covenant center of operations.

"Banks, get a charge on that door," I ordered one of my squadmates, gesturing at the shielded entrance of one of the barracks structures. Banks pulled a brick of C-12 from his satchel and slapped it onto the frame of the entrance space, priming it.

Tirimev and Geoffries's squads were doing the same to the other barracks buildings. Banks counted to three and blew the charge, shorting out the force field blocking the entrance.

"Breaching, breaching!" I shouted, leading the way into the shattered entrance. The inside of the barracks was clearly designed for grunts. There were methane refill niches lining the three tiers of the barracks interior which grunts would normally hook their tanks into and slumber during the night.

Or at least what _passed_ for night down here.

They were all empty, now; the grunts occupying them doubtless had left once the alarms had started going off.

Bursts of gunfire outside suggested that some of the other barracks had some inhabitants remaining. I guess we were just lucky.

"Building clear," I declared. "Move out!"

McCandlish was waiting for us outside. I could easily make out his silhouette against the meager light provided by the thousands of plasma torches burning on the cavern walls. "Garris, get your squad moving and reinforce Olbrecht's platoon! They're getting pounded by plasma mortar emplacements; see if you can flank the bastards!"

"Right," I nodded, not bothering to prolong our deep and meaningful conversation with shallow pleasantries. "Squad, on me!" I shouted again, leading the way for the twelve men and women under my command through two of the barracks structures and back onto the pathways through the stalagmites.

The cavern floor was not just a flat, barren expanse which the Covies had built their crap over like a small town; it was full of those towering stalagmite formations, and the terrain constantly changed. There were no flat spots; everything was either going uphill, downhill, or even sideways depending on the direction you were going in.

My squad and I ran through the twisting pathways that ran between the stalagmites. There were Covie structures all around us, but other squads were cleaning them up.

The muzzle flashes from Staff Sergeant Olbrecht's platoon were the first thing I saw as we rounded the corner. Somewhere up in the air, a falcon fired a salvo of ANVIL air-to-surface missiles, sending a thunderous conflagration of flame and debris into the air. The ground shook from the barrage and several loud _booms_ rang out as some of the towering stalagmites collapsed.

The constant stream of plasma mortar-fire was also silenced. That flyboy had the aim of a sex god.

"Well, that was easy!" Esposito hollered.

"We're not off the hook, yet!" Dempsey replied, quick to snuff out any offending optimism. He gestured up ahead, syaing, "Covies are still in force!"

* * *

"Hey, Dempsey!" I called over to my friend as we joined Olbrecht's platoon, which was currently pinned down by a group of Hunter pairs. The Hunters were fighting alongside a troop of jackals and a few Elites, and they were defending a large structure that appeared to be some sort of supply depot. Whatever it was, it was one of the main things barring our way into the Covies' central ops center, which we were trying to capture.

"What?" Dempsey shouted back from behind the boulder he was crouched behind.

"We're fighting in a fucking _cavern!_"

"Yeah, no shit!"

I've been in a ton of battles before this one, and this underground fight with the Covie garrison was like most of those others. There was plenty of plasma and lead flying through the air, plenty of shouting and the usual chaos, plenty of fire, wreckage, and debris. But the fact that we were fighting in a _cavern_…a cavern that we had gotten into by going through a hole in the ground torn open by a MAC round from orbit... The whole thing just felt kind of surreal.

I mean, how much more far-fetched can you get than this?

I frowned at myself, instantly regretting asking myself that question. There were always, _always_ ways for any situation to get weirder and worse…better to not wonder how this one could do that, else it might actually happen. Hey, don't judge; veteran marines are a superstitious bunch.

"Down! Everyone get the hell down!" Olbrecht's voice roared from somewhere up ahead. It was impossible to see where the acting leader of 3rd Platoon was; the bright plasma explosions coming from up ahead were much brighter than the meager illumination of the plasma torches burning on the cavern ceiling, and as a result nearly everything was made a silhouette.

"Clear the way for the tanks!" Olbrecht was shouting.

_Tanks?_

As if on cue, the familiar rumble of a dragon started echoing off of the stalagmite formations behind us. The hulking shape of the heavy battle tank rounded the turn in the stalagmite pathway my squad had taken. Every time I saw one of those suckers, I couldn't help but giggle a little on the inside…and then sometimes on the outside.

The only reason M1-Delta Dragons weren't main battle tanks was because they were more difficult to deploy than the M808B scorpions…but when they _did_ make it onto the battlefield, they always got a warm welcome from friends and enemies alike.

Those Hunters defending the approach to the Covie supply depot redirected their aim, firing their shoulder cannons over our heads now. Only one of the shots hit the dragon. The heavy tank's frontal armor withstood the hit, leaving only a scorch mark to suggest that fuel rod shot had ever existed.

The dragon's ball-mounted bow machinegun blazed to life, sending dozens, hundreds of tracer rounds zipping through the dim cavern twilight. Dust was kicked up into the air as some of the tracers hit stalagmites and rock formations, sending rock chips and fragments flying every which way.

Sparks started flying as the heavy rounds started tearing into the Hunters. The Covenant behemoths hunkered down, planting their massive shield-arms into the ground in front of them. The hellstorm of lead being rained upon them was effectively deflected.

However, that was not the dragon's entire armament. When its main cannon went off, I had to cover my ears. If God ever had one of those toy capguns, it would probably sound a little something like this.

Two of the Hunters disappeared in the explosion from the dragon's HE shell, and pieces of a third were seen flying through the air. The remaining three Hunters all rose back to their full height, roaring in rage over their fallen brothers. The lead Hunter started to charge forward, but the dragon fired a second time and made short work of it and its two brethren.

"Move up!" Lieutenant McCandlish came jogging past, leading the rest of my platoon up the stalagmite path winding up towards the Covie supply depot. With the Hunters silenced, there was nothing between us and that place but a few Elite warriors and a unit of jackals. Nothing too strenuous…but nothing to brush off, either.

I raised my BR55 and joined the flow of advancing marines as we pushed our way up the subterranean hill. More tracer rounds zipped out over our heads, defying the bright gobbets of plasmafire. Much of the weaponsfire was simply overshot heading into the air, fired from a location much further back.

Our little advance up the slope which the supply depot was on top of took a good ten to fifteen minutes. Elites were keeping up a constant fire on our asses, forcing us to run from cover to cover rather than a straight advance up the path.

The way up the slope was too narrow for the M1-Delta, so we were also going without armored support. The heavy battle tank turned around and rumbled off, probably to help elsewhere in the battle or to find an alternate route.

Captain Hasegawa was with Lieutenant Morrison's platoon; they were, as far as I knew, hooking up from the left along another path between the labyrinth of stalagmites like this one. The Covies defending the supply depot were getting hit from two directions.

I nicked a jackal in the side through the chink in its shield, causing it to stagger back and clasp the bullet wound. Its shield was lowered, exposing its head and chest. Before I could squeeze off a secondary shot, though, someone else scored a hit, taking the jackal's head clean off.

No matter; there were plenty of Covies to go around.

A plasma grenade flew through the air, whizzing past my head. I felt the heat of the detonation on my back, but I kept on moving. Standing still was a big no-no during a firefight.

"Get some fire down on those Elites!" Lieutenant McCandlish ordered. "Bloody split-chins are trying to regroup!"

Sure enough, most of the Elites were steadily falling back towards the Covie supply depot depot. Several grenades were thrown towards them, but only one unlucky Elite was killed by the detonations. That was to be expected—grenades, when used against Elites, were never expected to actually _kill_ them. Instead, they were mainly used as a method for draining the Elites' energy shields. This, they did extremely well.

The Elites' armor hissed and vented purple-colored smoke as they became the center of our bullets' attention. Their warbles of surprise and anger made it a good deal more satisfying to pull the trigger.

"_Fuel rod!_" someone screamed just as one of those higher-ranking Elites in the golden armor came striding out of the Covenant supply depot, holding a large, gold cannon over its shoulder. The fuel rod shots that it used as ammunition gave off a bright green luminosity, casting the face of the zealot holding the cannon in a soft emerald glow.

I hated fuel rod cannons. When you hear that _phoom_ noise they make when they fire, you just know that you have hell coming right at you. And even when you see it coming…you're just transfixed. I mean, you're looking at sizzling green blobs giving off sparks and a green energy trail in the air coming right at you; who _wouldn't _be transfixed by something like that?

Two more Elites near the zealot were cut down, prompting the zealot to give a vengeful roar, splaying its four mandibles wide.

"Oh, he's fuckin' _pissed,_ now!" the marine who had shot one of those Elites moaned.

The zealot opened fire with the fuel rod cannon, sending half a dozen blobs of crackling green energy bombing straight for us. I watched one marine simply vanish in the explosion of green. One minute he was there, then he was silhouetted against the green, then he was gone without a trace.

Three more of my comrades went flying.

I remember turning towards the sound of the firing fuel rod cannon, watching those green blazes roaring ever closer towards me. I then remember something heavy hitting me from behind.

I went down hard. The green fuel rod shot lanced right through the air where I had been and instead slammed into Private Mills, one of the replacements my squad had gotten at Alpha Base, back before our ill-fated excursion into Currith. The replacement marine disappeared in the explosion.

I didn't have time to acknowledge my squadmate's death; my mind was racing faster than a bullet train. Devereux had been the one who had tackled me. I shot her a quick nod—the marines in my squad had stopped thanking each other a long time ago, when it had become clear that we would be saving each other's asses on a regular basis.

The zealot's shields shimmered as we all concentrated our fire on it. Even the combined fire of our two platoons took nearly a full ten to fifteen seconds to take down those shields.

As we opened fire on the zealot, it roared, dropping the fuel rod cannon and reaching down towards its hip. I already knew what was coming next; the scar running down the left side of my face actually seemed to twitch when I saw the zealot pull out its energy blade. The last time I had encountered one of those blades, it had given me that very same scar.

The zealot roared again and leaped forward, slicing open the chest of a corporal from Olbrecht's platoon. Others scrambled to get out of the raging Elite's way. Lieutenant McCandlish now opened fire with his M7 SMG, adding his lead to the mix.

The zealot seemed to focus in on McCandlish, possibly recognizing him as an officer and therefore a prime target. It growled and pushed two marines out of the way, sending them flying. Banks, who was in a position behind the Elite, opened fire with his rifle, hitting it from behind. The zealot, in response, spun around and took a long stride forward, plunging its blade into Banks's stomach.

Devereux emptied a shell from her M90 into the Elite's now-exposed back. That shell was enough to finally drop what remained of the Elite's shields.

The Elite grunted from the force of the shell, but did not slow down or stop fighting. It spun back around, striking Devereux in the face with its fist. My squadmate was thrown to the side several yards, knocked out cold.

I swore loudly and made for Devereux's motionless form, but the zealot blocked my path. I saw only a flash of white as its blade came screaming for my neck before I found myself facedown on the ground, having reflexively ducked.

The zealot turned and stabbed down at me, but I had already rolled out of the path of its sword. No longer paying much attention to me, the zealot instead delivered a swift kick to my side. Though it was probably a tap by Elite standards, that kick easily cracked a couple of my ribs and sent me skidding five meters across the clearing.

I muttered something unpleasant under my breath as I rolled back over onto my good side. My vision refocused just in time to see the zealot turn back around, step forward…and freeze. The zealot seemed to freeze up like a statue for a few moments, then it dropped its energy sword, its hands went slack, and then its whole body went limp.

There was a nauseating _squelch_ sound, followed by the Elite's body collapsing the rest of the way to the ground, blue blood gushing from the hole in its neck. Lieutenant McCandlish stood over its corpse, wiping the blue blood from his combat knife off onto the zealot's armor before sheathing it and grabbing his M7.

I crawled over to where my BR55 was lying and picked it up, climbing back to my feet. By now, most of the other Elites had been cut down. They were like puppy-dogs compared to that son-of-a-bitch zealot, especially with their shields down. Their bodies littered the top of our little knoll.

Captain Hasegawa arrived just as Lieutenant McCandlish and Staff Sergeant Olbrecht were getting us organized. Lieutenant Morrison's platoon followed the Captain and joined us, completing Alpha Company. The three company medics hung back to tend to those of us who hadn't been as lucky as everyone else while advancing up the slope.

"Blow the entrance; I want this structure cleared," Captain Hasegawa ordered us.

"You heard the Captain! Get a charge on that fucker!" Gunny Stisen barked, waving two marines with det-packs over to the glowing entrance of the Covenant supply depot. Those marines fastened their munitions to the entrance while a technician quickly set them to detonate.

"_Fire in the hole!_" the technician shouted, sprinting away from the supply depot's entrance. The entrance was quickly consumed in the ensuing explosion as the C-12 charges detonated, blowing a clean hole into the supply depot.

"Breaching, breaching!" Olbrecht exclaimed, taking point and leading his platoon inside.

Morrison's platoon remained outside to keep our six clear, and mine went in after Olbrecht's. We no longer bothered with anything remotely close to stealth; the Covies knew we were here, and we had places to be. We went in guns at the ready, shouting at the top of our lungs.

The supply depot was empty. Well, there were plenty of ration supplies and Covie weapons, but there weren't any living Covies that we had to put down.

"Well, if anyone wants to shoot some plasma, now's the time to do it," I said as my squad broke into one of the munitions rooms. Racks full of plasma repeaters and the wacked-out laserguns we called 'focus rifles' lined the room, just waiting to get plucked.

My marines broke ranks and raided the room, shouldering their weapons and grabbing repeaters from the wall, pocketing extra energy units. A marksman to the core, I grabbed one of the focus rifles, as well as a few energy cells. I'd switch back to my BR once they ran dry.

Hey, by burning through Covie junk, I'm saving up on my own ammunition. Believe it or not, bullets really _don't_ grow on trees.

"Delta Company's forced an opening at the Covie ops center!" Captain Hasegawa was shouting, gesticulating madly for us to get moving. "We have to move, _now!_"

Gunny Stisen and several of the other sergeants started yelling the same thing, although their language was a good deal fouler.

"Squad, on me!" I barked. The marines under my command who were neither dead nor incapacitated-ten or eleven souls-quickly fell in, hefting their new Covenant toys. "Let's go for a run, boys!"

"Just like the good old days under Byrne," Dempsey chuckled as we triple-timed it after the rest of the company.

Alpha Company didn't have to jog downhill; the knoll which the supply depot was on was actually connected to the escarpment on which the Covies had set up their ops center. I could see it now; a large, sprawling conglomeration of structures with the curves and purple color typical of Covenant architecture. Our little knoll was actually the far end of a ridge that ran up the face of the escarpment like a hiker's trail.

As we ran across that little natural bridge, I noticed that my squad wasn't the only one in Alpha to have 'acquired' Covenant weapons. In fact, most of the marines in my platoon had them, as well as a good amount in each of the others.

This would be interesting.

* * *

We arrived at the Covie ops center to weakened defenses. Delta Company, on the other side of the whole complex, had forced an opening, according to the Captain. The remaining Covie defenders must be scrambling like mad to keep them back...and by doing so had weakened the rest of their defenses.

Normally they would be able to have a chance of holding out against us for a while, even with weakened defenses...but they didn't count on one thing: Alpha Company coming straight at them and shoving their own weapons down their throats.

"_Open fire!_" Lieutenant McCandlish howled.

This was it. It was probably one of the shortest battles I had ever fought; I was used to week-long, or even month-long, trench battles in and around towns. That was the type of war we had been fighting ever since after Harvest.

This was different. We were on the offensive. We were _moving_. The Covies were the ones who were hiding behind failing defenses. Oh, how the tables have turned.

An storm of plasma burned through the air towards the Covie defenses as the platoon lieutenants gave the order to fire and we obliged.

There were around twenty or so Elites leading around sixty grunts and jackals, all of whom were trying to keep us on the ridge leading up to the top of the escarpment. They fought from behind energy barriers and boulder defenses that had been set up in front of the approach to one of the entrances of the ops center.

Marines hummed with dark laughter and gave wolfish grints as they heard the Elites' warbles of surprise at Humans firing plasma at them.

Our advance was no longer a full charge anymore; we now flitted from boulder to boulder, from cover to cover, evading the Covies' returning fire. We still advanced, only not with the speed and progress as we did before. This was more of a body count fight, now; taking down every single Covie we could find. Every dead jackal, every Elite we took down was one less Covie in our way and in the way of the other companies.

Weaponsfire and explosions could be distinctly heard as well, evidence of Bravo, Charlie, and Delta Companies' own fights to gain entrance and storm the Covie base.

We were getting close, now.

"I like this thing!" Dempsey grunted as he laid down some fire on a ducking Elite with his plasma repeater. It felt unnerving to hear that sound, feel the heat of the plasma...but see it coming from your friends instead of your enemies.

A loud, rapid hissing noise dominated the firefight as a Covenant plasma cannon emplacement erupted to life, sending plasma bolts screaming into our midst. Two marines were cut down instantly, and several more were wounded as they dove for cover.

I swore and shifted my aim to cover this new threat, but the Elite manning the cannon must have seen me as well, for rapid-fire plasma was slamming into the boulder I was taking cover behind within a few seconds. I tried to maneuver around it, but that damned Elite didn't let up.

"This is such _bullshit!_" Dempsey growled as the hail of plasma refused to let up. If he poked so much as a toe around the rock, he would lose it. He gritted his teeth and started punching the rock in frustration.

Finally, I looked over to the next boulder over. It was about fifteen meters away, and three marines were sheltered behind it, trading fire with other Covies. One of them was Corporal Barkley, my platoon's grenadier.

Perfect.

"_Barkley!_" I roared, pointing at the marine from my little rock. He looked over at me. "Get some fire down on that turret, goddamnit! Draw its fire!"

"Yes, sir!" the grenadier gave a quick nod and hefted his grenade launcher. He squinted in the direction of the plasma cannon emplacement and fired off three grenades in quick succession.

I heard three detonations, and I knew they had not hit the cannon because the moment Barkley ducked back under cover, _his_ boulder started getting pulverized by heavy plasmafire.

I took a deep breath, counted to three, and jumped up to my feet, bringing my Covie focus rifle around. By the time I was standing up straight, the targeting reticule was dead-centered on that Elite manning the plasma cannon.

The Elite noticed me once more, even from that distance, and started to swivel the cannon back around. I didn't give it the chance.

I squeezed the trigger mechanism. The focus rifle bucked, slamming back into my shoulder as it fired a fiery beam of crackling orange energy. That energy beam sliced across the plasma cannon, shearing it in half. I let go of the trigger and got a much firmer grip on the rifle, hugging it tight with my shoulder.

I opened fire again and struck the Elite gunner full in the chest. It's shields lasted for about three seconds before giving out. The orange beam burned right through the alien's torso.

"Turret down!" I shouted. "Turret down!"

"Tighten up that right side, Tirimev!" Lieutenant McCandlish was shouting. Other squad leaders were giving orders to their men, as well as taking orders from their platoon leaders. To an outsider, it would have seemed like chaos, but it was actually highly organized.

I broke cover with Dempsey and started forward once more, stumbling as a plasma charge sizzled into the rock a few inches to my left. "Move up!" I shlouted to the marines I passed. "Move up!"

I passed Lieutenant McCandlish, who was hauling a pair of replacements to their feet. Singh, Esposito, Marks, and Everett were up ahead, pushing against a cluster of seven Elites and five jackals who were firing from behind an energy barrier.

Running was always something I had been good at. From my childhood in the orphanages on Harvest, running from bullies and older kids; from my teen years on the streets of Gladsheim, running from thugs and criminals; and from my time in the Harvest militia, running my ass off to keep Nolan Byrne from putting his foot up it. As such, whenever running became involved-and when you've been fighting a retreating war for the past ten years, it became involved a _lot_-I usually excelled.

Those Elites were still firmly entrenched. Try as we might, we could not get to them, nor could we get around them. But I knew they would have to go if we were going to gain entrance to the Covie ops center. We could not wait for another company to come to our assistance, either; how would _that_ make our reputation look?

Lieutenant McCandlish was busy trying to take down another knot of Elites off to the right. Olbrecht and Morrison were likewise engaged, and there were no other sergeants in the immediate area. Time for me to shine.

I already had a plan in mind as I ran towards those Elites. I had been expecting to find an officer and give him my plan before helping him carry it out...but now it looked like it was going to have to be _me_.

I spotted a clump of ten or so grunts who were firing their plasma pistols blindly towards us. They were frightened beyond all imagination, though. I could see it in their non-existent aim, the way their arms shook as they tried to fire, and their high-pitched shrieks and squeals. They were hanging on by a thread.

Time to cut that thread.

"You three!" I pointed at a trio of replacements-including Singh-who were huddled behind one of the boulders. "Get off your asses and follow me!"

They all exchanged a hesitant glance with each other, but probably decided not to risk pissing off a Staff Sergeant. They rose to their feet and readied their weapons.

"See those grunts up there?" I pointed at the ten grunts still firing into our advance. "We're gonna give 'em a little scare! Fire around them when I give the command, but try not to kill any of them!"

"Not kill them?" one of them sounded confused. "But why? Why wouldn't we-"

"Did I tell you to open your fucking mouth? No, I didn't; there's a reason I have three stripes and you only have one, so shut the hell up and do as I say!"

I wasn't usually so brutal with replacements, but this was no time for questioning my orders. This was a time for action. Singh and the other two men fell into step with me.

I led them across the ridge approach to the escarpment, where the Covie defenders had been pushed back to. Ducking as a plasma overcharge sizzled through the air near my head, I arced back around to the left. The knot of grunts were now between us and the stubborn cluster of Elites and jackals, who were still firing away from behind their energy barriers.

"_Now!_" I shouted. "Scare the sons of bitches!"

Doing exactly as I had ordered, Singh and the others opened fire with their plasma repeaters. They didn't shoot the grunts; they shot up the boulders which they hid behind and filled the air over and around the little Covies with plasma charges.

I ended up killing one of the grunts with a quick burst from my focus rifle, taking off half its head. That was the straw that broke the camel's back; the grunts were plenty scared with the plasma shooting all around them, and one of their comrades getting blown to hell was enough to finally break them.

With frantic yips and squeals, the grunts broke formation and cover, waddling away as fast as they could. As per my orders, Singh and the others did not open fire. We let them go, we let them run away...all the way back to the knot of Elites and jackals that was giving us so much trouble.

One by one, they took cover behind the energy barriers.

I dropped my focus rifle and grabbed my BR55, raising the scope to my eyes and centered the crosshairs on the last grunt. Just as it hopped behind the energy barriers, I fired.

The round struck the grunt right in its methane tank. The apparatus sparked, and then exploded, consuming the next grunt up. The second grunt's methane ignited as well and _its_ tank detonated.

The second explosion was closer to the rest of the grunts, and it sparked a chain reaction. I shielded my eyes as a blinding explosion of methane gas erupted behind the energy barriers. The same energy barriers that had shielded those Elites and jackals from harm now were their undoing; they focused the explosion, instead of out in all directions, right back into the Covies' faces.

When the smoke cleared, only two Elites were left standing. The rest had been killed by the concussive forces of the combined blast.

"Forward!" Dempsey shouted from over to the left, where he and the others had been trading fire with those Covies for the past few minutes. "Charge the fuckers!"

I led the three replacements back to the platoon just as those two Elites went down. Though they had survived the blast, their shields hadn't, so it wasn't too difficult for my comrades to send them to Hell.

Alpha Company surged forward once more, sweeping up the ridge and onto the escarpment. The remaining jackals were falling back into the entrance of the ops center. We took a few of them down before they got there, but a good number of them made it inside.

No matter; we were all going to the same place.

"Inside! Everyone inside! Keep it moving!" Captain Hasegawa was yelling. "McCandlish, you're up! Olbrecht, you're next; get your boys into..."

As the Captain doled out the rest of his orders, Lieutenant McCandlish gathered his platoon. Tirimev, Geoffries, and I mustered out squads and, without another word, followed the Lieutenant inside.

The corridors were long and a little dim. There also weren't very many places to take cover; the halls were all empty. The only place to hide form incoming plasmafire was in the door of an adjacent room.

Luckily, we didn't have to hide all that much. There weren't very many Elites left; retreating was not in their nature, so the majority of them had all died outside of the complex, trying to hold us off.

We only ran into Elites once, and that was after a steady ten minutes of clearing out room after room, corridor after corridor. We were close to the command room when we encountered two zealots. They tried to charge us, but Barkley blew them off their feet with a well-aimed grenade. As they tried to recover, we took down their shields relatively fast with what remained of our plasma weaponry.

Lieutenant McCandlish drove us forward down the length of the corridor. When we rounded the corner, we were greeted with a most unusual sight: rifle barrels pointed right in our faces.

"Hold fire, _hold fire!_" Hasegawa shouted. "Friendlies moving up!"

The gun barrels were quickly lowered after the marines saw that we were not Covenant. They must have been pretty highly-strung.

A tall man with the double bars of a captain on his helmet and shoulders made his way through the other marines and met Captain Hasegawa in the junction of the corridors. The two company commanders shook hands.

"Hasegawa," the other Captain nodded.

"Michaels," Hasegawa returned the gesture. "Good to see Bravo in one piece."

"We just came from the central command circuit," Captain Michaels said. "Delta Company has captured the command room here. Our techies are getting all they can from the place."

"Has the Colonel given any orders?" Hasegawa asked. "Our COMs have been acting up down here...I have not been receiving everything."

Captain Michaels nodded. "Pelicans are coming in for us as we speak. We're getting the hell out of dodge so that our flyboys can carpet-bomb the whole damn place."

"Will that kill everything?" Hasegawa sounded doubtful.

"Most likely not," Michaels shrugged. "But anything that may survive will have no way out of these caverns. And even if they _did_ make it out, they would pose no threat whatsoever to the federal authorities."

"Anything left in this complex?" Hasegawa asked next.

Captain Michaels shook his head. "Your company killed the last pocket of resistance. We've been fighting inside here for a while, now; most of the defenders tried to escape through the entrance your boys took. We ground 'em up good."

An hour later, I was boarding a pelican with the rest of my squad. Lieutenant McCandlish informed me that the medics had pronounced Robbie Banks dead a few minutes after he was stabbed by that zealot. We had also lost Mills.

The only one who was absent was Devereax, who had been airlifted to safety after that zealot had struck her. She had suffered some internal bleeding, but McCandlish had told me that the medics had told _him_ that she was going to be fine.

"You did a bang-up job, Garris," the El-Tee clapped me on the shoulder before he stepped out of the pelican. "I'll see you back at Alpha Base."

The pelican lurched as its thrusters engaged and the dropship took off, rising back up towards the hole created by the MAC round through which we had originally gained entrance to this place.

"You know," Dempsey grumbled as he sat down next to me, taking off his helmet and running a hand through his close-cropped blond hair. "I don't think the trenches were all that bad, anymore."

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_Alright, here comes the apology. I'm very sorry it's taken me so long to get this chapter up; this was due to three main things. One: writer's block, for a short period of time. Two: a perfect storm of papers I have to write for school, which I've only just finished yesterday. And three: a huge virus that's trashed my computer. I posted this from a laptop, actually; the computer still isn't back. Gah!_

_So yeah, I wasn't intentionally making you guys wait, but sometimes the Universe has its own agenda._

_-TheAmateur_


	33. II Chapter 33: Asking Favors

Chapter Thirty-Three: Asking Favors

**February 17, 2537 (Military Calendar) \  
New Harmony, Beta Persei System**

"Doc, I ain't staying in this bed another night. I'm telling you that up front."

Lieutenant Colonel Athos Patrikos gave me an odd look from over his clipboard. "Did you really think I was going to let you sleep another whole day away just because an Elite gave you a little booboo?" the battalion surgeon asked me.

I snorted. "A booboo, Doc? You call four fractured ribs—one of them _broken,_ mind you—a ruptured spleen, punctured lung, and internal bleeding a _booboo?_"

"Well…" Patrikos paused, seeming to reevaluate his opinion based on my observations. "Well, you're right. It's more of an ouchie than a booboo. I stand corrected."

It turned out that that zealot who had kicked me during the push towards the supply depot had doled out more damage than it had intended. Its kick had caved in one of my ribs. It hadn't punctured my lung, though…that had happened later, after all the running, diving, evading, and fighting that had occurred _after_ the hit.

By the time we had cleared out the ops center of the underground Covie base, the stress of the battle had finally forced the rib into the lung, puncturing it like a balloon. I had collapsed in the pelican on our way back to Alpha Base, but my squadmates had managed to keep me stable until the medics could take me in.

All I had needed was a few quick minutes under Lieutenant Colonel Patrikos's knife to fix up my ribs and lung, and I was right as rain. Sure, my chest felt a little tight, and the place on my abdomen where an explosive spike had impaled me back on Verus III had started to sting a tad bit, but other than that...

That sort of pain was something I was just used to.

"Those are my discharge papers, aren't they?"

"_Mm-hm_," the doc nodded. "I'll submit them later, but I came to tell you that you're free to go. Get the hell out of here."

"Much obliged, Doc," I exchanged a quick handshake with the surgeon before rising from my cot and stepping out of the post-op room. I knew that the Doc wasn't really being douchey to me; it was one of his ways of joking with me. And besides, he was never in a flowery mood after a battle, when the influx of wounded was at its worst.

I pulled on my sergeant's cap and stepped outside, taking a breath of the cool, crisp morning.

It was a gray day. Mist dominated the outdoors, as if nature had pulled down a gray curtain over everything. It was a silent fog, disturbed by small puffs and eddies of wind. The clouds higher up in the sky were dark, and thunder occasionally rumbled through the veil, but all else was quiet.

I passed a couple of familiar faces as I made my way across the greens, trading nods and friendly punches with fellow noncoms, and salutes with officers.

It had been a little while since I had last eaten; I was famished. I wasn't the only one with similar desires, either; a good number of marines were still in the mess hall, shoveling down breakfast. I had missed Reveille, but breakfast itself lasted a while on days when we were just on base.

This was the only time we ever got a meal worth savoring; during our crash days on base. In the trenches, our only breakfast came from the ration cans. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we could rig up a stove and have something hot to eat.

Technology worked against us, sometimes. In the old days, soldiers used to use their helmets as makeshift cooking pots. Now, with all of the gear and electronics stuffed into the damn things, using a UNSC helmet for a pot would be a bad idea.

I pushed open the entrance doors to the mess hall and followed the wall to the serving counters, where I grabbed a tray and let the cooks load me up.

"You want extra bacon with that, Sarge?" Alphonse Giuliani, the head of battalion mess, grunted to me as he dropped a pair of flapjacks onto my tray.

"Well, I won't insult you by saying no," I replied.

"That's what I like to hear. Go save the planet, eh?"

I took my tray and headed over to my usual table. To my delight—concealed delight, naturally—several of my squadmates were still here, including Devereux.

Devereux had looked better. Her left eye was swollen blue, as well as the upper part of her cheek, painful evidence of where that damned zealot—the same one that had popped my lung and killed Robbie Banks—had struck her.

We had been lucky, she and I. The only reason that zealot hadn't killed both of us back there was because it was already gunning for Lieutenant McCandlish, who was a greater priority target than a couple of nameless noncoms like ourselves. Well shame on it, because McCandlish was the one who actually killed it. Props to him.

"Heya, Sarge," Esposito slid down the bench a tad to give me enough room to sit. "How's the lung?"

"Reinflated and ready to pop again," I replied in a voice so layered with cheerfulness that everyone knew right off the bat that it was fake.

Sure, it was probably cynicism at its purest form—getting healed only to get wounded again—but I had a track record for getting heavily wounded in every battle I had fought in. During the Harvest campaign, I had nearly lost a leg during the battle in the ruins of Utgard. On Verus III, I had taken a spike through the stomach.

Here, I had only gotten kicked by an angry Elite. That wasn't so bad when you put things in perspective…so now I wondered if and how it was going to get worse.

"What about you; how are you holding up?" I asked Devereux.

"Been better," she grunted, eating another mouthful of eggs. "They tell me Banks is dead."

I gave a weary nod. "He bought it right before that zealot punched your lights out."

"You realize that we're it?" she murmured to all of us in general. "You, me, Dempsey, Esposito; we're all that's left of the squad who fought on Verus III, and _I_ was a replacement. I mean, how much longer are _we_ going to last? Next colony we're on, there'll probably be people saying how they're the only members of the squad left from New Harmony."

I shrugged. "I'd give myself another year or two. But until then, I'd rather just enjoy every hot meal I get."

We wolfed down the rest of our breakfast. Even though we were stationed back at Alpha Base at the moment, we all knew that that could change on a dime, and potentially before we were finished eating our latest hot meal. If there was one thing we absolutely abhorred, it was getting interrupted mid-meal. Eating faster lessens that chance; I still had nightmares about that one instance during my time in the Harvest Militia when Byrne had forced us to go running during a Christmas dinner.

I spent the next hour in the firing range, making sure my marksmanship wasn't slipping. After looking at the Elite-shaped targets after every go, I was satisfied that it was not.

I let out a frustrated sigh as I reset the program, trudging back to the firing booth and putting on the ear protection. Division blocking me from joining Spec Ops was really starting to wear on my patience. I could do _so_ much more damage with a sniper rifle than I ever could with a BR55. It was like forcing Mozart to play on one of those cheap plastic keyboards; I'm sure he could still do it exceptionally well, albeit in an acutely limited fashion. He could do so much more with a grand piano, same way I could do more with an SRS99B.

One day, I swore to myself, I would wear the full black armor of the ODSTs, and one day I would enter a battle in a titanium coffin dropped from orbit, and one day I would snipe half an army before it even got close to our position. Maybe not today, tomorrow, or even next year…but one day.

I wasn't the least bit surprised when I turned after firing all of my rounds and saw Lieutenant McCandlish waiting patiently outside of my booth. "I don't give autographs until after dinner, sir," I grunted, removing my ear protection and hanging it on the peg next to the booth's entrance.

Again, I really wasn't surprised to see him. In fact, I was surprised that I hadn't seen him sooner; myself and the other squad leaders had been expecting a briefing for our next mission.

We had gotten back from the fragfest down in that damned cavern yesterday, but had not been told anything about what had been found in the Covenant databanks downstairs. How had the Covies gotten there? Did they have a ship? And what were they doing down there?

Why were there Covies on a colony for a purpose other than glassing?

"The Captain's calling the company command structure together for a mission briefing," the Englishman told me. "Just like last time. Something in the Covie databanks must've turned a few heads."

"About damn time," I remarked, flicking on the safety of my BR and slinging it over my shoulder. I gestured at the rifle with my head. "Think anyone'll mind if I bring this? I don't feel like going all the way back to the armory."

McCandlish shrugged. "Long as you don't use it on anyone."

The two of us got back to the mess hall in good time. It had been cleared of breakfast a while ago and was now occupied by Captain Hasegawa, the other platoon leaders, and the other squad leaders. After waiting a few minutes for everyone to arrive, we got started.

"Morning, gentlemen," the Japanese man greeted us all with a nod. We all reciprocated with varying amounts of enthusiasm. "I don't know about you, but I'm getting a sense of déjà-vu. To start things out, I'd like to say that the operations undertaken by the rest of the 16th Expeditionary Unit to neutralize the other Covie bases were successful. Turns out that many of those other caverns we detected were mere outposts—nothing on the scale of what we encountered."

I exchanged a sidelong grunt with Staff Sergeant Geoffries. Once again; lucky us. Our battalion always seemed to get the hardest job. Even when there was a perfect chance that we would luck out, we never did.

"Apparently the Covies have been using New Harmony as a listening post for some time; they were able to discover the location of Verus III from here—that much we know. Who knows how much more damage they inflicted from here. What causes us concern is how they arrived here in the first place," the Captain continued.

Hasegawa snapped his fingers. The holographic image of New Harmony that had been slowly rotating in the air in front of the wall winked out of existence, replaced by a semi-transparent image that was unmistakably a Covenant assault carrier.

"The Covies landed a ship on the northern polar ice cap, not far from the magnetic pole," the Captain explained. "We have no idea how long they have been here, but the north pole is definitely where they have their ship. The magnetic fluctuations and frequent electric storms have masked all optics that could have spotted the vessel, which explains why no one has found it until now."

I listened to the Captain's briefing with limited interest. It was required of him to give full briefings to the company before every planned mission, but sometimes I don't think all of the minute details were necessary. Just tell me where we'll be fighting and a rough estimation of the enemy's strength, and I could handle the rest. I didn't care how long the Covie ship had been here, I didn't care how it had bypassed New Harmony's surveillance, I didn't care why no one on New Harmony had noticed a whole assault carrier sitting in their backyard. Just tell me how we were going to destroy it.

"We're running against the clock on this one," Hasegawa warned us. "Our attacks on their subterranean outposts were a success, the Covies now know without a doubt that we'll be gunning for their little space-boat. They'll be hurrying to get that assault carrier into the air. If that thing gets into orbit, this colony is toast—all of the nearby naval forces have been called away to Mamore to quell the insurrection there. By the time they return, that assault carrier will have been able to burn most of the planet."

"So we hit it while its wings are still clipped," Lieutenant Fletcher, Hasegawa's XO, picked up the slack of the briefing, circling around the hologram of the Covie assault carrier. "Command has already sent in several armored units to secure the general perimeter of where we believe the ship is located-"

"Where you _believe_ the ship is located?" Lieutenant McCandlish echoed, a curious eyebrow shooting up his forehead. "You don't know where the bloody thing is?"

"Electrical storms are raging up in that area—our eyes can't get a clear picture," Hasegawa explained. "Add to that the fact that the magnetic pole's proximity to the presumed location of the assault carrier messes with our instruments, and you can understand why they cannot be one hundred-percent certain of its exact location."

There was a murmur of dissent as the Captain explained that we were not actually going to be destroying the assault carrier. The entire expeditionary unit was being called in to try to capture the damn thing. The technologies that could be harvested from that ship could help the war effort, it could give the UNSC an advantage against the Covenant, it could go a long way towards developing—_blah, blah, blah_.

Instead of going in for a quick bombing run—or even an infiltration op—we were going to have to go _into_ a grounded Covie ship, and then we were going to have to capture every corridor, every chamber. Military personnel had a little nickname for something like that: _Bloodbath_.

Apparently, these orders were coming down the grape vine from ONI, not General Strauss—the commanding general of the 16th MEF. The spooks wanted Covie trinkets to examine, and they were going to spend infantryman blood to get them.

Captain Hasegawa made the rest of the briefing as fast and painless as possible. The Japanese officer was an accomplished public speaker when the situation called for it, but even he started to chafe when he was forced to say what ONI wanted him to say.

He concluded with a grim nod. "This one's going to be a tough one, boys. Sure, we're Force Recon; we wouldn't have it any other way…but we still die as easily as any other dumb bastard in fatigues. Keep your heads. Don't be heroes. If you want to be a hero, make sure you tell me how you want your memorial to be designed. We are shipping out to the arctic tonight."

"You are dismissed," Lieutenant Fletcher concluded. "Get your men organized and ready to roll by 1700 hours. We ship out after dinner."

I rose with the rest of the company command staff and gave a quick salute to Hasegawa and Fletcher. I let my hand drop and filed out of the mess hall.

Despite the oppressive fog outside, I was able to find Dempsey relatively easily; he was in the rec center, playing Texas hold 'em with a handful of marines from Bravo Company. Between the two of us, we were able to gather the rest of the squad in the barracks in less than ten minutes.

"What the hell is this about?" Esposito grumbled, plopping down into one of the benches. "I was in the middle of one of those picture magazines Everett keeps under his-"

"You want to shut the fuck up, taco-boy?" Everett interrupted Esposito before the veteran had a chance to finish his sentence.

I ignored the jabbing; there were more important things to worry about than what Everett looked at in his spare time. I didn't beat around the bush or waste any time with any sort of intro; I just got straight to the point.

"I hope you all have been good boys this year, because we're going to the North Pole," I announced.

Dempsey snorted. "Why, has Santa Claus joined the Insurrection?" my friend snickered. "I knew it was only a matter of time before ONI decided to go after the fat bastard."

"No, Santa hasn't joined the Insurrection," I sighed. "He's keeping an illegal toy assault carrier in his backyard. We're being sent to confiscate it."

Devereux's eyes narrowed. "You're not joking, are you?" she murmured.

"I'm definitely not laughing," I agreed.

"_Shit_…" Dempsey, realizing that I had been serious when I had mentioned the arctic. "What the—how—why…the _arctic?_"

I raised my hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I didn't choose where the Covies decided to stash their boat." I quickly summed up and explained what had transpired in the company briefing. "The whole damn expeditionary unit is being sent in to capture that vessel…"

Before my squad could erupt in exclamations at how bad of an idea that would be, interspersed with colorful adjectives describing ONI, I held up my hand and quelled them. "Yeah, yeah, it's a horrible idea, but it's going to happen. We're shipping out later tonight. I want everyone to make sure they have appropriate winter gear, along with extra ammunition. If your weapons aren't in prime condition right now, _get_ them there. Any questions?"

There were none, so I dismissed them all.

I found myself with nothing to do after that. I wasn't in the mood for poker, or the firing range. I couldn't shake this feeling, either…I had a really bad feeling about storming a Covenant ship. I mean, trashing that cavern had been one thing; the Covies had been somewhat surprised, and a place like that wasn't exactly built for defense. It had been built for stealth.

A Covie ship was their home territory; full of nooks, crannies, secret corridors, junctions, energy barriers…we would be in _way_ over our heads. Whatever ONI jackass was ordering us to take that thing needed a reality check; it would be better to just toss a Fury tactical nuke into the damned thing's hangar bay, press the detonator, and wrap things up in time for dinner.

I found myself wandering into the makeshift chapel of Alpha Base. I think the structure had originally been some sort of Quonset hut, but it had been renovated into a military chapel, capable of administering to most of the religions practiced by UNSC servicemen.

The only other man in the place was Captain Patrick Francis Maloney, the battalion chaplain. Everyone called him 'Father' even though he was not specifically a Catholic priest—he, like the chapel, administered to all denominations. He was as much a rabbi, pastor, or imam as he was a priest. Though I was not a religious man myself, I couldn't help but admire the man for having such extensive knowledge in so many different religions. When the shit hit the fan, a lot of men and women depended on him, one way or another.

"Staff Sergeant Garris," Father Maloney straightened up from the altar, raising an eyebrow. His expression was quizzical, yet not unwelcoming. "It is certainly a pleasant surprise to see you in here. God knows I see you little enough."

"Yeah…" I murmured, wandering down the aisle between the chairs. "Yeah, I bet He does…"

"If you don't mind my curiosity, may I ask why you have come?" Maloney queried, setting down the crucifix necklace he had been polishing, a wry grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Could it be that Albert Garris has come to pray?"

"I don't know why I came," I admitted to the chaplain. "I…well…" I took a breath and explained to Maloney the details of our upcoming op.

Father Maloney gave a sympathetic nod. "I was at the battalion briefing with the Colonel. I know everything. In fact, I've been packing my essentials…I surmise I'll be needed where we're going."

"I have a really bad feeling about this next one," I sighed. "Normally I would just ignore it; I have bad feelings about _every_ fight we get sucked into, but they're normal bad feelings. I know some of us are going to die, I know _I_ might die…but that's normal. This time, though…storming a Covenant ship…" my voice trailed off.

Father Maloney's smile shrank a little, but it did not vanish. "I wish I could tell you different, but I cannot," the chaplain sighed. "I'm afraid I'll be giving a lot of last rites during this fight. I've already given too many…"

I suddenly felt the urge to ask a question that had been on my mind for a long time. "Why does He allow this?"

"Pardon?"

"God. If he _does_ exist, if he _is_ real… We're supposed to be his children, right? His most beloved creations? So why the hell has he allowed the Covenant to slaughter us for twelve years? How can you believe in something that is allowing us to be killed off like household pests? Don't you ever wonder _why_ He would allow this war to continue?"

Father Maloney fixed me with his gaze. "Every day," he replied. "But why is there war in general? Why is there murder? Why is there disease? Why is there poverty? Those are the real questions, don't you think? And if I knew the answer to them, then I would be a god, too."

I couldn't really argue with an answer like that. "I don't think I'll ever understand you," I said.

The chaplain gave a faint smile. "I don't think _I_ ever will, either," he chuckled. "Faith isn't supposed to be something you understand…just something you have. Something you can trust. And in a time like this…it can help more than ever."

"In what way?"

"I was raised a Catholic," Maloney replied. "Not the most laid-back religion, you could say. But a friend of mine once said that faith can be hard to live by…but it is easy to die by. I believe that Heaven awaits me…and so, though I do not want to die just yet, I am not afraid to."

I thanked Maloney and quickly walked out of the chapel, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. There were too many things I could not understand that the chapel represented; I did not belong in there.

Even so…that horrible feeling I had about the upcoming op wouldn't go away. Might as well try everything before resigning myself…but I still couldn't believe I was going to do what I was about to do.

I looked up in the general direction of the sky. "Uh…God? You listening to me? Er…okay…I'm kind of new at this, so…" I cleared my throat awkwardly. "Alright, look. I don't know if you exist and are listening to me, or if I'm just talking into a cloud, but… Storming a Covenant ship is suicide; if you're anything even _close_ to omniscient, you would know that as well as me. I don't…I just…oh, the hell with it…" I muttered, setting off towards the armory at a brisk pace.

I passed a few comrades along the way, trading nods and salutes. When I got to the armory, I hesitated, glancing up at the sky one last time.

"Look, all I'm saying is that we could use some help, alright? And you have to agree that if _I'm_ resorting to this, then we need it bad."


	34. II Chapter 34: Winter Wonderland

Chapter Thirty-Four: Winter Wonderland

**February 18, 2537 (Military Calendar) \  
New Harmony, Beta Persei System**

"_Alley! Cigarette! Now!_"

"Already on it!" I shouted back to Dempsey, pulling two smokes from the pack I kept in my belt.

We were back where we had been a few days ago; sitting at the turrets of a falcon screaming through the sky at top velocity, holding on for dear life and praying we didn't lose any limbs before we reached our destination.

Only difference was the environment. Last time we had been plunging feet-first into a gaping hole in the ground, created by a frigate shooting a MAC round straight into the earth. _This_ time, we were cutting right through a massive storm bank in the middle of the arctic. Yeah, go figure.

I remember all those times back on Harvest when Nolan Byrne would take us out on those runs in the mid-afternoon heat…I would have sold my soul to the devil to have cooler weather when I had been on those runs. If I had known that, in twelve years, I would be flying into an arctic ice storm, I really wouldn't have complained so much. The Harvest summer suddenly didn't seem so bad anymore.

Because the falcon's small troop bay had no walls and was completely exposed to the elements, all of us were soaked. Well, our armor was—the protective layers we wore to stave off the cold were just fine. But anything that wasn't covered by the armor, like our faces, was getting wetter by the second.

This wasn't because of rain, mind you. It had been raining last time we had done this. No, this time it was snow. _Snow_.

I know what you're thinking: _Snow. Big deal. You complain too much, Alley._ Yeah, well imagine snow tearing into your pretty little face at over a hundred miles per hour. Doesn't sound so pleasant anymore, does it?

No, I didn't think so.

It was around midday, but flying through the belly of a front of violent storm clouds gave the illusion of nighttime. It wasn't completely dark, though; the troop bay's ambient lights bathed us in a hellish red glow. Bolts of lightning tore through the dark clouds every couple seconds, silhouetting the swirling sheets of snow falling through the clouds towards the ice below.

I clamped both cigarettes in my mouth and fumbled with my lighter, cupping my hand around the flame so that the biting wind did not instantly snuff it. After a few failed attempts, the smokes finally lighted, their ends flaring cherry red as I took the first drag to get them started.

I exhaled the smoke from the double-drag. The wind snatched the smoke away before I could even smell it. "_Demp!_" I called over to my friend, who was manning the turret on the other side of the falcon. "You want your smoke, or not? I'm not smoking doubles; gives me a headache like you wouldn't believe-"

"Shut up and give me the damn smoke!" Dempsey was already holding his hand out. I plucked one of the lit cigarettes from my mouth and handed it to Dempsey, who quickly clamped it in his mouth before he lost it.

"You know, we've all had our reasons for killing Covies," Esposito was saying over the roar of the lightning storm. "But I just want to wring their necks for making us fly through this shit! This is fucking _loco,_ man!"

All the rest of us, for better or for worse, had to agree with him. We had been shaking around in our seats for the past two hours straight; it was a wonder none of us had lost our lunches along the way.

The flight continued without much change. We kept getting shaken like rag-dolls, the lightning kept flashing, the snow kept whizzing into our faces, yah-de-yah. I endured; what else could I do? Sure, it wasn't comfortable, but I hadn't survived all I had survived up until this point to bow down to _snow,_ of all things.

It wasn't until roughly another hour or so later that we started to notice a change in our falcon's flight path. The rhythm of the engine had changed; it was slowing down.

"We're coming in a little hot, boys and girls!" the pilot hollered back to us from the cockpit. "Hold onto something!"

Our falcon continued to descend until we were finally clear of the storm clouds. We were finally rewarded with an almost breathtaking vista of the glittering white arctic landscape. The white snowscape contrasted so sharply with the roiling black storm clouds it looked almost like a surreal painting. The constantly-moving tongues of lightning splayed across the horizon added to this feel.

I pulled a fold of the scarf I wore around my neck and chest over the lower half of my face, and then I gripped the falcon's door turret with an even tighter grip.

"I don't get it!" Singh shouted over the din. "We got into that cavern by a frigate shooting a MAC into the ground! Why can't it do the same thing to the assault carrier? Why do _we_ have to be the ones to spill blood to secure it?"

"These fucking electrical storms, that's why!" Everett shouted back, gesturing at the clouds and lightning. "Frigate would probably end up hitting _us!_ You want that? No, I didn't think so!"

That was when I heard one of the last things I wanted to hear: "_Banshees!_"

The purple Covie fliers screamed up at us from the ground and the air was suddenly filled with plasma.

The pilot threw us into a sharp bank, spinning around and angling down to meet the oncoming banshees. "Those bloody things aren't gardening hoses; _use_ them!" he yelled back at us.

I was already sliding the priming bolt into position and moving my thumbs to the triggers as the pilot spoke. When he was finished, I depressed the triggers, bracing myself as the door turret gave its initial buck and started to spit death at the oncoming Covie fliers.

Lower, more powerful explosions could be heard as the falcon pilot opened fire with the attack craft's nose-mounted cannon. All of the other aircraft in our little fleet started to break formation and open fire as well, turning the once-organized advance into a slightly less organized sprawl of dogfights.

One banshee I caught coming straight towards me. As I kept up my fire, I was able to nick one of its thrusters. Before I could follow through, however, it exploded suddenly. One of the pelicans soared through the haze, its nose cannons still smoking triumphantly.

As Esposito badmouthed the pelican for stealing my kill, I swiveled my turret around to cover the falcon's six. Dempsey and I kept up a steady volley of lead tearing into the banshees on our tail. We weren't the only ones doin this, either; all the gunners on the other falcons were doing likewise.

I kept this up until finally there were no more banshees gunning for us. Any force the Covies still had left in the sky were engaging our escorts. I relaxed my thumbs, taking them off the triggers. The turret clattered to a stop, its barrel smoking slightly. My squademates exchanged furtive sidelong glances with one another.

_Close one._

"So...uh...don't know about you guys, but I don't see an assault carrier anywhere around here," Devereux observed, leaning forward to get a good view out of one of the falcon's open sides.

If the Universe had ears, I think it had been listening to Soph right at that moment, for an instant after she spoke our falcon crested the small range of mountains that we had been crossing. A large, bulbous purple form was clearly visible, standing out against the stark white snowscape. Its sleek hull flashed white frequently, reflecting the lightning strikes.

"That's not a goddamn assault carrier," Singh remarked.

The replacement was right; the Covie ship down there looked more like one of their destroyers. It was just sitting there in the middle of a large expanse of ice formations, hills, and snow. Barely visible were the UNSC armored units fighting their way to secure a stable perimeter around the vessel. Small flashes could be seen from our altitude, evidence of the heavy fighting going on down there. Those tanks needed our help.

Sure, tanks were able to withstand a lot more damage than the average Homo sapien, but one of the lessons all of us learned early on is that armor and infantry function much better together than they would apart.

"_It's a frigate!_" the pilot hollered back, recognizing the shape and size of the Covie vessel.

"It's not supposed to be a frigate; it's supposed to be an assault carrier!" Singh argued.

"Hey, you want to shut the fuck up?" Dempsey snarled. "God's handing you a kilo of good luck on a silver platter and you're _complaining_ about it?"

Burning blue globs of energy started to whizz through the sky as plasma mortars sighted us and began opening fire.

"Hope you boys are belted up; this is gonna get a little hairy!" the pilot warned us. No sooner had the words come from his mouth that the pilot threw the falcon into a hard bank. I hugged the turret, holding on for dear life as our falcon dodged and evaded the incoming plasma shots. We were all over the place, moving so fast that I wasn't even able to see if anyone else got hit. Maybe that was for the best.

We were tossed, turned, and thrown around the sky for what felt like an eternity, but after a short bout of evading enemy plasmafire, the flcon pilot finally descended to beloved, blessed land.

"Everybody out! Let's move, let's move!" I shouted, pulling marines out of the falcon with me. We crunched through the snow and quickly regrouped with McCandlish, who was gathering the rest of the platoon over near the CP of the armored regiment stationed at this location.

I quickly took off my helmet and pulled on a dark green camo-pattern balaclava, pulling the warm material over my face so that only my eyes were visible. After putting my helmet back on, I shouldered my BR and made sure it was ready to rock. It was, and now _I_ was.

As Colonel Ndebele finished pulling together his other companies, I became consicous of the thousands of other pelicans and falcons landing all over the ice plain. It had been a while since I had seen the entire 16th Expeditionary Unit all in one place, and it didn't disappoint; if the sight of forty to fifty thousand marines backed up by roundabouts a thousand armored vehicles all charging towards a grounded Covenant ship didn't give you a stiffy, I don't know what would.

"Hasegawa! Get your boys moving!" Ndebele called over to our company CO; his deep, booming voice cutting through everything else.

"Common, you slow sons of bitches; we haven't got all day!" Lieutenant McCandlish started to spur us forward after the tanks, his language getting fouler and fouler as the seconds ticked on by.

Orders were relayed down the chain of command, and all of the samller units quickly received their respective instructions. The 9th Force Recon was being sent in to reinforce an armored unit which turned out to be none other than Famine Contingent-a unit of tanks that we had frequently dealt with back on Verus III.

I could already tell right off the bat that the Covies didn't stand a chance on the ground. Their ship was a frigate, which had a smaller complement than an assault carrier would. Then take into account the fact that the Covies didn't have their entire force assembled against us; we had already destroyed a large number of their forces when we burned through those caverns. Right now, we were facing a partial force.

I don't intend to send across the picture that we were beating the Covies senseless-because we definitely _weren't_-but we were certainly making them think twice about deciding to pick a fight with New Harmony.

I swore, stumbling as a plasma bolt struck an ice formation behind our position, sending ice fragments whizzing through the air. One of them actually struck my helmet, but the protective headgear deflected it with ease. Still...too close for comfort.

A trio of banshee fliers swooped in low from above, unleashing a volley of green fuel rod projectiles. The ground shook under our feet, and several of my comrades lost their footing.

"Help them up!" I shouted to the marines nearest to those who had fallen. "Next person to slow down gets a boot up their digestive tract!"

This was a nightmare. Yeah, we outnumbered the Covies; and yeah, we were carving a path straight to their frigate, but the constant fury of the lightning storm was wreaking havoc with optics. It was a challenge to sight a target through my BR's scope whilst getting blinded by the lightining strikes every two seconds.

I gritted my teeth as I fired at an Elite just as a lightining flash whited out my scope. I don't know if I hit the bastard, but it was gone when my eyesight returned.

"This is fuckin ridiculous!" Dempsey snapped, blinking heavily, his aiming eye tearing up. "How're we supposed to shoot the fuckers if lightning decides to go _boom_ in our eyes every goddamn-"

My old friend went on to compose a sentence that was so heavily laced with profanity I was surprised it didn't give his mouth gangrene.

Alpha Company continued to make its way through the labyrinthine hills and formations of the ice plain. When we weren't face-down in the snow, ducking for cover, we were slipping and sliding as we tried to make our way forward across the icy terrain. All the while during the advance, the looming shape of the Covenant frigate grew closer and closer, like some distant goal finally coming to fruition.

One of my replacements went down, a plasma charge searing through his side. I flagged his position for a medic, but kept on moving; we could not afford to get bogged down. Now, I was able to notice something unnerving about the Covie ship's massivve engines; they were beginning to flare blue.

The frigate was getting ready for take-off. We had to get on that bastard and capture it before it was airborne, or our operation would get a hell of a lot more complicated.

And then something even stranger happened. The universal COM squawked and the voice of none other than General Strauss issued through. "All units, this is Command," the General said. "Disengage and fall back to safety zone Bravo. I repeat; fall back to safety zone Bravo. Our job is done."

My squadmates and I traded incredulous looks with one another. Safety zone Bravo was a certain designated distance away from the Covenant frigate. Had we really just been ordered to retreat? The fight was actually going _well,_ for once! What possible reason could there be to order a full retreat at a time like-

"Are you deaf, or do you have a bloody mental illness?" the unmistakable voice of Lieutenant McCandlish shook me out of my thoughts. "Did you not hear the General? Turn your arses around and get moving!"

Maybe it was a little unorthodox, but McCandlish's kind words were enough to make us stop thinking for ourselves for a few moments. Good soldiers to the end, we followed our orders and started to hightail our asses _outta_ there. I could even hear the Elites' grunts and warbles of surprise as we went. Clearly, the Covenant defenders were just as stymied as we were.

UNSC troops have retreated many times in the past, but never on the rare occasion when we were actually _winning_. The Covies knew this as well as us. That we would suddenly turn around and flee when we were on the brink of closing in on that ship was...it didn't feel right.

I would frequently sit alone at night and wonder why this order had been given. When I had attempted to pray yesterday, had a certain someone been listening? Had we just gotten lucky? As it turned out, I would never find out exactly why we had been ordered to turn around until many years later in a burning, snow-covered city. Until then, thoughts of this...well, it was a little short to be considered a full-scale battle, but there was really no other term that could more accurately describe it. Until then, thoughts of this battle would plague me, almost as much as my thoughts of that one Elite back on Verus III who had spared my life.

The rest of the day flew by. Our casualties from that little excursion in the snow were relatively light; we hadn't been fighting long enough for the bodies to pile up as they usually did.

I had climbed into a pelican that had been waiting for us in safety zone Bravo with the rest of my squad. As we took off, we watched as the Covenant ship fired its engines and slowly rose up from the ice plain. When its engines went off, therer was no devastating effect on the plain. That was the main reason why I had thought Command had ordered us to retreat; I had thought that _they_ had thought that the Covie frigate's engines would fry us upon ignition.

No dice; they barely even scorched the ice. The reason why we had been turned around remained a mystery. I knew in my heart that in the time it had taken for us to reach safety zone Bravo, we could have reached that ship before it had taken off. I know we could have done it.

We watched the Covenant frigate ascend up into the atmosphere, growing smaller and smaller until it was a tiny dot, and then that, too, vanished.

"What the fuck, man?" Esposito grunted. "I'm not complainin' about not having to storm that thing, don' get me wrong...but why'd we just let it go like that?"

"No fuckin' clue!" the warrant officer piloting our dropship called back from the cockpit. "Why do you care, honestly? Jesus, you ground-pounder vets are a weird bunch; you get handed a golden pass to live for another few days and your first reaction is to wonder why! Me, I wouldn't even question..."

I settled back against the bulkhead, tuning the pilot out. I watched the broad white snowscape get swallowed up by darkness as we ascended into the clouds. I exchanged one last weary glance with my squadmates. Before resigning myself to sleep, I reached over and gave Singh a friendly punch on the shoulder. "Survived three brushes with death, now, have you?" I asked him. "Innies in Currith, Covies down in the hole, now this."

"Yes, sir," the replacement replied, his voice still quavering a little from the cold. Or maybe it wasn't the cold, but I was willing to give the kid the benefit of the doubt.

"We owe you a little congrats when we get back to base," I said to the replacement. "Our newest veteran deserves some recognition."

And with that, I rested down on the bench I was sitting on and tried not to think too much about what had just happened out there. I was more confused than I had ever been for a long time...but for now, sleep was more important than...

I was out cold before I could even finish that last thought.


	35. II Chapter 35: Golden Opportunity

Chapter Thirty-Five: Golden Opportunity

**February 19, 2537 (Military Calendar) \  
New Harmony, Beta Persei System**

"_Common, Demp!_"

"_Drown that sonofabitch, Sarge!_"

"_Shit on a stick, he's actually _doing_ it!_"

The military pub on the grounds of Alpha Base was alive and roaring with intoxicated furor. There were at least one or two fistfights going on at any given point in time; that's how festive we were feeling, and with good reason.

The Covies had left New Harmony. This had to be unprecedented; discovering Covenant on a colony...and then having that colony around after the battle to tell the tale. Yeah, that's happened a few times in the past, but-unlike those previous instances-New Harmony was still _intact_ after the battle. This was unheard of.

But now wasn't a time for pondering life's great mysteries. Now was a time to get so drunk that you forget that your race is on the brink of annihilation. These times had to be the best times in my life, aside from those quiet nights in the foxholes I had shared with Soph back on Verus III, and more recently in our barracks' utility closet.

A ring of us had gathered around Dempsey, who was chugging a tall tankard filled to almost overflowing with some of the dark, frothy lager that the pub offered. After what seemed like an eternity, Dempsey emptied the tall glass, set it down onto the table triumphantly, and gave us a wide, toothy grin. The bright silver New Harmony Campaign medallion, which he had clamped between his teeth, flashed in the light. He had downed a whole tankard of brew with that sucker in his mouth.

"_Woo_, yeah! Semper Fi, asswipes!" he cackled, waving for another drink.

Everyone was simply letting loose all of the pent-up emotion and frustration that had been stirring inside of them since...well, since forever. This was one of those rare times when you got to saw people without the hopelessness or depression that was so popular these days.

I remember reading something about soldiers from some huge global war six hundred years ago. They fought for the old Soviet Union-the precursor to the communist Koslovic separatists of the Interplanetary Wars. Their army had been reckless-careless, you might say-with the lives of its soldiers. And so, the soldiers of this army would often celebrate at the end of every day, because they knew that every day they managed to come back and evade death-be it from enemy guns, or from their own-was a gift.

I think we should do that more often. If I had a choice to go out laughing or crying, I would choose laughing every time. Men always go to their deaths easier when they laugh. But enough talk of this; it's too depressing. Now was a time for fun.

Sadly, there were no major barfights this time. Ever since that little scuffle I had been a part of back in Fort Braxton, people had been careful not to spark anything off while on the sauce. MPs always loved having heads to crack.

We partied it up throughout the night. I think it was around 0300 or so when I managed to stumble back across the greens, into my barracks, and finally into my bunk. Blessed sleep followed immediately afterwards.

* * *

The first thing I woke up to was the blaring trumpet tones of Reveille. That was among the few downsides of our little nights of festivity; waking up the next morning. The hangover aside, we were usually running on only a couple hours of sleep. Then factor the hangover into it, and you have the makings for a pretty shitty day.

Fate had other things in store for me, though. Yes, the hangover was bad; and yes, I was dead tired...but today was going to be one of the best days of my life.

We went through the raising of the colors and breakfast without any hitches or changes to the everyday routine, and so I prepared myself for another uneventful day on the base. I returned to the barracks and picked up my BR before heading to my usual spot in the firing range. Technically I was supposed to keep my weapon in the armory...but I was going to be damned if I didn't have my weapon on hand at all times, except for meals, of course. In times like these, you never know when you're gonna need it.

I sighted my BR downrange and opened fire, pumping a clip of lead into the holographic Elite target. After the hologram gave its last spurt of virtual blue blood, I checked my results. They were good, but there was always room for improvement, so I hit _reset_ and went at it again.

I wasn't the only one in here, either-around a dozen or so others were also practicing with BRs or magnums. Because of all the noise and din, I really didn't hear the Colonel enter the place until I was removing my ear protection to survey the target once more.

The Colonel cleared his throat noisily, the way someone would do it to get a person's attention rather than to expel phlegm. I turned around, giving a start of surprise as I came face-to-face with my battalion commander. "Sir! Sir, I...uh-"

Ndebele gave a light grin, holding up his hand and silencing me. "Don't knock yourself out, Staff Sergeant."

It was then that I noticed the Colonel wasn't alone; there was another man with him. He was dressed in a simple black uniform, but it was the emblem he wore on his collar that gave him away: a black-and-white rendition of an open eye with the words _Semper Vigilans_ emblazoned around the iris.

ONI.

The Colonel quickly noticed my acknowledgment of this mysterious man and gestured for me to walk with them. "Let's take a walk, Staff Sergeant," he said, turning towards the exit. I fell into step beside him while the ONI officer trailed behind. "You have served in my battalion for how long? Five years?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir; ever since the Harvest Campaign ended."

"I actually care about what goes on in my battalion, son," the Colonel continued. "I don't simply leave companies and platoons in the hands of my captains and lieutenants and look the other way. I've paid attention to you over the years. You were one hell of a marine during your time under Staff Sergeant Macintyre, and, since his unfortunate wound on Verus III, you have led your own squad with distinction. I am proud to have had you as a part of my command. And, with this in mind, I have come to you with a…" a slight gleam came into the Colonel's eyes. "…with a…_job offer,_ of sorts."

"Eh?" my ears perked up. This was certainly an interesting direction the usual conversation was turning down. Colonel Ndebele came to a stop outside by the flagpoles, allowing the ONI officer to catch up with us.

He gestured towards the man with his head, saying, "This here is Captain Delucci, ONI black ops."

"Captain, sir," I instantly sprang to attention, snapping a crisp salute to the Captain. His captain's rank was a lot higher than the marine rank of captain—the marine equivalent of a naval captain was a colonel. Definitely a rank requiring some measure of respect.

Maybe this guy was an asshole, maybe he wasn't. For now, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But the fact that he was ONI couldn't be good… When ONI got involved, good things rarely happened.

"Captain Delucci requested for you specifically, Garris," the Colonel explained. "You may not remember him, but we met on Verus III, during the assassination op."

The ONI Captain took up the conversation on that note. "When you saw me, I'm afraid I was bleeding on the ground with two spiker rounds in my chest," the ONI officer winced, as though he could still feel the wounds. He probably could. "I am told that, during that op, _you_ were the one who made the shot that neutralized the Covenant Prophet."

"Yeah, I crowned that bastard," I replied on impulse before I could put a gag on my brain's profanity center. _Shit_. "Pardon my French."

Delucci only raised an eyebrow in reaction to the crude language. "No need for an apology, son…the language of those who serve under me is not much cleaner. Now, after taking care of that Prophet on Verus III, my superiors saw fit to grant a favor to the squad that you carried out the hit with. Let it never be said that ONI does not reward good soldiers. As it turns out, the favor that squad asked for was a sniper…and they requested specifically for you. So I've pulled a few strings with your division, and…well, let's just say that your superiors are now more than willing to let you go, should you _choose_ to go."

I stood there, openmouthed as the ONI Captain offered me the chance of a lifetime.

"You would have to go through another round of Basic in the Ural Mountains on Earth," the ONI Captain warned me. "But if you survive selection—and I think you will…you'll have a squad waiting for you at the other end."

"Staff Sergeant Garris," Colonel Ndebele said to me formally, addressing me as if he were on inspection. "How would you like to join the ODSTs?"

* * *

**END OF SECTION II**


	36. III Chapter 36: Setting the Tone

**Section III: Helljumper

* * *

**

Chapter Thirty-Six: Setting the Tone

****

December 2, 2541 (Military Calendar, approximated) \ (Four Years Later)  
Unknown Location, Slipspace

I dreamed of Reach. Our grand and mighty fortress in the stars. No safer place in the galaxy, they all said.

Hey, maybe all those believers were right; with its heavy orbital defenses and massive defense fleet, the Covies would pay dearly in blood for every inch they took. But would they be stopped? That was the question I could not answer…and the question I never _wanted_ to answer.

Of course, I wasn't actually _on_ Reach right now. Right now I was in a cryo-tube in one of the 'fridges' on the UNSC cruiser _Kronos's Scythe_. I had been there twice, though; once when I went through the UNSC Marine Corps training regimen at Needle Point, and once more last month when Vice Admiral Redmond—captain of the _Kronos's Scythe_—had been called to FLEETCOM HQ for some higher-ups gathering.

We had been dispatched directly from there, actually…zooming off into the dark void of slipspace without any explanation as to where we were headed or what was waiting for us at the other end.

I finally cracked open my eyes. I had been gradually swimming back into consciousness for the past couple minutes, and now I was fully awake. It was _cold_ in this tube…I mean, yeah; I had been frozen inside of it for a month or so, but still…_brr_.

After another minute of gradual warm-up, the lid of the tube unsealed with a hiss. The windows—mostly opaque from the misty vapors that lingered in the tube—instantly fogged up with the change in temperature.

I bolted upright, leaning over to the side and practically retching up a thin stream of foul-smelling, bluish-gray fluid, which was instantly absorbed by the gel-pads. Disgusting as it was, that was the crap that was put in my lungs so that they wouldn't freeze up and shatter. And people ask me why I hate cryo-sleep so much.

I quickly hopped out of the tube and made straight for the locker room. I popped open my locker and took out my fatigues. As I pulled on the shirt, I paused for a moment, gazing at the tattoo on my right shoulder. The image of an HEV pod with a flaming skull emblazoned on its centre, and the letters _ODST_ stenciled below, stared back at me.

It was the tattoo every ODST got upon induction into the ranks of the 105th 'Helljumper' Expeditionary Unit. I got mine after I made it out of training in the Ural Mountains in one piece…and let me tell you; there's only one thing worse than boot camp: going through a second one after you finish the first one.

Helljumpers go through several layers of screening, basically. Passing through the entrance requirements of boot camp for the navy or marine corps was easy enough, these days; the UNSC recruiters would be more likely to streak naked through HIGHCOM than turn away a young piece of meat _volunteering_ for service. Then getting through actual boot camp was the challenge…then surviving in battle long enough to get _noticed_ by Spec Ops was the biggest challenge of them all.

Helljumper training was the worst. I've suffered under Byrne on Harvest, and then under the DIs at Needle Point…but even the twisted ingenuity of Nolan Byrne took a back burner to the ruthlessness and brutality of the ODST trainers. I don't really dwell too much on my days in the Ural Mountains…but they had certainly left their mark.

Now fully dressed, I checked the time. 0500 hours…such as it was on board a starship. They had woken me up right on schedule; I had about half an hour to wolf down breakfast before I would have to start making my way towards Briefing Room 30-D on Deck 12.

I traded nods and salutes with other personnel as I made my way down the corridors of the marathon-class cruiser. I took the nearest lift down to the deck with the mess hall and hurried through the bowels of the ship, striding into the room just as the cooks were opening up shop.

I loaded up my tray with pancakes and sausage. There weren't a whole lot of personnel here; mostly naval jockeys pulling graveyard shift. There weren't very many marines here, yet; they didn't cycle in until 0700 or so.

I wasn't completely alone, however. I spotted one of my squadmates—obviously woken up from cryo-sleep before myself—sitting at our usual table, so I picked up a glass of orange juice and made my way over. "Morning, Celt," I said to the other Helljumper, sitting down across from him.

Celt looked up at me with his bloodshot eyes for a moment before returning his full attention to his breakfast. "Mornin'," he grunted.

His name wasn't really Celt, obviously. It was Patrick O'-something or Mc-something…something Irish; I always got it mixed up. We never use our real names on a mission, and the habit of referring to one another solely by our callsigns bled over into our off-time to the point where we never really used each other's real names. And, in a weird way, I actually preferred it like that. It made me feel more like a Helljumper, as opposed to an all-too-fragile man in a suit of armor, and although, physically speaking, they are the same thing…psychologically they are completely different.

"Big day, today," I murmured in between mouthfuls of pancake, dragging each forkful through my lake of syrup.

"Eh?" Celt grunted again, not even looking up from his tray. "All we're goin' to do is waste an hour of our lives in a briefing room before we get dropped into God knows what kind o' shitehole FLEETCOM sent us to and probably die equisitely painful deaths. You call that a big day?"

"Point taken," I conceded, washing down what I had eaten so far with a stream of orange juice. "But still, you have to admit, _any_ day with a drop is a big day."

"Well, I'll level wit' ye on that note," the Irishman said in agreement.

The two of us shoveled down the rest of our breakfasts, trying to savor every morsel. After all, this would be the last food we'd be eating for a long while. When we were done, it was about time for us to leave, anyway. Perfect timing.

As we waited in the lift, heading to Deck 12, Celt caught sight of me glancing at the photo I usually kept in my helmet. It was an image of Sophie Devereux and me huddled together on a wool blanket, our groggy expressions overlayed with laughter and light irritation at having a picture snapped so early in the morning.

The picture had been taken by my old friend Dempsey in a burnt-out home on Verus III, during the Siege of Cedar Rapids. Devereux had given it to me four years ago on New Harmony, right before I shipped out to ODST training on Earth. It had been confiscated when I arrived at the Ural Mountains, but I made sure I got it back after I 'graduated'. For the two combat drops I had participated in since then, I had kept it safely stashed in my helmet. This was the first time someone else had noticed it.

It was an object of deep sentimental value to me, but all Celt had to say was, "Nice knockers on that bird, wouldn't ye say?"

I let out a quiet sigh, flitting my glance upwards. "Yeah, Celt, yeah…gee, have I ever mentioned how in awe I am of how deep you can be?"

"Might've mentioned it once or twice," Celt chuckled. "What, after the things Cajun and Pyro would blather on about your lass, you're getting pissed off at _me?_ Christ on a cross, mate, you need to lighten up."

"Well, I…wait, _what_ things Cajun and Pyro say?"

"Uh…Cajun? Pyro? What?" Celt was quick to feign ignorance. "They ain't been sayin' nothin; who said they were sayin' anything? Forget what I said."

Celt's already-thick accent thickened even more as he either got angry, agitated, or tried to lie. I was going to go out on a limb and guess it was choice number three; he wasn't a very good liar.

Ah well; the lift reached Deck 12 at that moment, so I let the matter drop. Hell, if one of my squadmates had a picture of a hot girlfriend, _I'd_ probably be one of the first to make comments. Can't really fault someone else for the same thing, I suppose…

Briefing room 30-D was a short walk through the labyrinth of corridors away from our lift. Celt and I were jogging a little bit by the time we arrived; we weren't late, but we were about to be. My squad leader was waiting for us outside the doors.

"Where in the blue fuck have both of you been? The admiral's been waiting for three minutes," he growled.

"Sorry, Master Sergeant, sir," Celt and I chorused in unison. Thankfully, Celt decided not to give any backtalk today; I could tell the Master Sergeant was in no mood for it.

My squad leader let our tardiness drop and simply motioned for us to follow him inside. A grizzled, hot-tempered Master Sergeant from the State of Israel back on Earth; my squad leader had definitely seen it all. He hadn't been fighting this war as long as me—not many could claim to have fought in that first battle on Harvest—but he had been a part of the ODSTs a hell of a lot longer than me. I had been in the war longer, but he had seen more.

The rest of my squad was already seated at a round table in the center of the circular room, facing towards two men. One of those men was Captain Delucci, our ONI handler. The other was Captain al-Hassin, the executive officer of the _Kronos's Scythe_. Vice Admiral Redmond was on duty on the bridge, getting ready for the upcoming return to normal space; too busy to be here right now, naturally.

Cajun and Apache—our demolitions specialist and our medic, respectively—raised inquisitive eyebrows. _How much shit did the Master Sergeant put you through?_

I shook my head slightly. _None_.

"Gentlemen, thank you for coming," Captain Delucci greeted all of us formally, thanking us for arriving as if we had had a choice in the matter.

"Pleasure, sir, as always," the Master Sergeant grunted. The rest of us mumbled similar comments under our breaths.

"Gentlemen, I believe it is time you were informed as to the nature of our latest excursion. We are en route to the Canis Serpentis System, where a small Covenant fleet has engaged the defense forces at the Irivet V colony."

"What's the outlook?" the Master Sergeant asked.

"Definitely not good, but not the worst we've ever seen," Captain Al-Hassin answered that one. "From what we've gleaned out of the transmissions coming from that system, the Covenant fleet seems to be more equipped towards reconnaissance than combat; they probably came to scout out the planet and did not know that we had found it first. From what we know of their behavior, they will try to wipe out Irivet V with what they have...but if we can hold them back, wear them down long enough, they will likely forget this colony and move on. We know for a fact that the Covies have large fleets putting pressure on Salamis, Arcadia, and Rhea Minor; all of them larger and more important colonies than Irivet..."

"But Irivet V is obviously more important than you're letting on, else we would be heading to one of those other worlds," Virgin, our tech specialist, surmised.

"This is highly classified information, you understand?" Captain Delucci leaned in close. "If any of you are caught leaking it, I can personally assure you that you'll never see the light of day again," he paused, letting his message sink in, before resuming the briefing in his previous, lighter tone. "That being said, Irivet V is the site of most of the Office of Naval Intelligence's research and development. Our scientists there have been working around the clock on a project, and they are nearing a breakthrough. If the Covies find them, all of their work will be for naught."

"This here ain't no rescue mission, is it?" Cajun asked hesitantly, blowing at the ends of his horseshoe mustache as he spoke, as was his nervous/impatient tick.

"Think of it as a recovery op before thinking of it as a rescue op," the ONI Captain replied, choosing his words carefully. "Technically, the data package you are being sent to recover is more important than the scientists who have been working on it. If you have to choose between the two parties…the data package will take precedence."

"_Still a goddamn rescue mission_…" Cajun muttered under his breath.

No one wearing captain's stripes heard him, thankfully, and so Delucci continued with his briefing. "Again, the scientists are of secondary priority. In fact, we will probably have them extracted by regulars if need be," the ONI Captain decided.

For quick clarification, 'regulars' is the term we usually use for common marines.

"The actual facility where the package is located is under siege," Delucci explained to us. "It is under Mount Pylos, the second-tallest peak in the Erebus Mountain Range, approximately…seventy kilometers southeast of Ainsdell City, the planetary capital. You will be dropping into Hellena, a smaller city on the western coast of the Ionian landmass—from there you will be taken east to the Ainsdell metropolis…and from the_r_e you will make your way southeast to Mount Pylos. We will address your extraction upon your arrival at Mount Pylos."

"The _Kronos_ will be returning to normal space in approximately thirty-five minutes," Captain al-Hassin informed us. "Once we drop into the Canis Serpentis System, it will take an additional hour to reach Irivet V. You all need to get suited up and armed…and if there's anything else that needs doing, get it done quick. The instant we come within range, we're dropping you men in feet-first."

"Any questions, then?" Delucci asked. After no one responded—there were no useful questions that we could really ask until we were actually _at_ the battle—the ONI Captain gave a quick nod and rose from his seat. "Then you boys should go and get prepped immediately. You are dismissed."

We all rose in unison, bringing our hands to our foreheads in salutes. Delucci and al-Hassin returned the gesture and we dropped our hands, turned, and quickly filed out of the room.

"I want everyone in the drop bay in one hour," the Master Sergeant declared as we headed down the corridor towards the nearest lift. "Get armored up, get your weapons; do what you gotta do fast. You leave anything here, Mommy won't be able to pick it up for you."


	37. III Chapter 37: Feet First

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Feet First

**December 2, 2541 (Military Calendar) \  
En Route to Irivet V, Canis Serpentis System**

"Oh...feels good to be back in the suit, man," Pyro murmured.

I pulled on the titanium and ceramic composite armor pieces, locking them together like a jigsaw puzzle until they formed into the ODST battle armor suit that everyone recognized so well. Sometimes we would apply camouflage patterns to parts of the armor, but not this time. Right now, our armor was completely jet-black.

"Aye; ye'll be eatin' them words by the end o' the week," Celt snorted, not sharing in Pyro's good spirits.

"Less talking, more suiting up!" the gravelly, clipped tones of our squad leader interrupted the banter. The Master Sergeant was already armored up and ready to go. "I want everyone in the armory in five. We've never been late for a drop, boys, and we sure as hell aren't going to start now."

The rest of us finished suiting up real quick and clomped our way out into the corridors. Our first steps in our armor after a prolonged period of time were always a little stiff and awkward, but getting used to the armor was a very quick and painless; we had been wearing it almost as often as we wore normal clothes...omitting the time we spent under cryo-freeze, of course.

We started passing marines in the corridors; the _Kronos's Scythe_ must have started unfreezing them.

The armory was located on the other side of the section we were in, but on the same deck, so we did not have to ride the lift a second time just to get our weapons. The Deck 20 armory was where we always stored our equipment whilst onboard the _Kronos's Scythe_.

The quartermaster cross-referenced our names with our registered weapons and pointed us in the right direction. Our equipment was right where we had left it four months ago, after the Battle of New Honshu. I ran a finger over my battered old BR55, which I had wielded ever since I had taken it from Nolan Byrne. How I hadn't lost that old thing after all these years…I really don't know. I didn't use it all that much anymore, but I still kept it…for sentimental reasons, I guess.

I then grabbed my primary; a sleek, matte-black SRS99B sniper rifle. I had been issued this particular weapon when I joined my squad four years ago. After a little over a decade of fighting in a force recon battalion, my fight to become a full-fledged sniper had finally been won. The smile on my face when I was handed this rifle could have powered a small city for a few seconds.

I clipped the sniper rifle to the magnetic weapons strip on the back of my armor and secured my M6D magnum sidearm to my right thigh. After slipping several extra clips of ammunition into my belt, I was ready to roll. Or rather, ready to drop.

"Let's hurry it up, boys! Covies aren't going to wait forever for us to arrive!" the Master Sergeant exclaimed, spurring us on. If only that were true…

Pyro grunted as he shouldered the weight of a SPNKr rocket launcher, but was fine after the initial strain of lifting it. It was a good thing Pyro was our heavy weapons specialist—he was the only one of us who was strong enough to wield the rocket launcher without any trouble. "I still need to put pads on this motherfucker," the burly African-American grunted, slotting the rocket launcher onto his back. "You got no idea how much this damn thing makes my shoulder hurt after holding it for hours at a time."

"You ever get tired of bitching, Pyro?" the Master Sergeant asked. "You probably burn more calories with your whining than you ever did in a battle."

"_You_ wanna carry this, sir?" Pyro moved to take the SPNKr off his back.

"Naw," the Master Sergeant shook his head. "I'm the squad leader; it wouldn't be right."

"Sure…" Pyro chuckled, pulling an MA5B off the rack.

Cajun was the last of us to be ready. He draped two bandoliers of grenades across his torso in an X and pulled his M319 IGL—individual grenade launcher—from the rack. Being our demolitions specialist, he always carried adhesive blocks of C12 explosives in his belt, as well as an assortment of more powerful charges in his satchel.

"Aight, I'm good to go," he announced.

PFC Virgil Buford was probably the craziest son of a bitch I've ever seen during a fight. When I say crazy, I mean _crazy;_ had there not been a war for the survival of Humanity raging right now, he probably would have been locked up in a nuthouse. The first time I had encountered him, I watched as he killed an Elite by riding on its back and shoulders like a rodeo bull before finally stabbing it in the neck. True to his Louisiana roots, he had been given the callsign 'Cajun', and he had been one of my closest comrades on this squad. Probably because he reminded me a little bit of Dempsey.

The Master Sergeant led us out into the corridors and back into the nearest lift, which we promptly rode down to the _Kronos's Scythe's_ lowest deck. Drop Bay 6 was our destination—a short walk down the length of the _Kronos's_ underbelly. We walked through the bay and into an outlying passageway marked Drop 6-B.

This space was pretty much an oversized corridor. A straight aisle ran down the center of the space with two rows of HEV pods on either side. Helljumpers had aptly nicknamed chambers like this, 'Hell's Waiting Room'.

There were a couple of other platoons of ODSTs from the 7th Shock Troops battalion—the unit my squad was a part of—onboard the _Kronos,_ but they were not running black ops, so we rarely saw them. Major Silva—our Battalion XO—usually loaned us out to Delucci more than he used us for battalion operations. This drop bay was for black ops use only, so we were all on our lonesome.

Captain Delucci waited for us at the other end of the corridor. He always sent us off on our ops and kept in contact from the _Kronos_. Usually, we conducted our operations from the _Whisper_—his prowler—but that ship had been sent off to Mars for refitting. Until it came back, we were assigned to the _Kronos's Scythe_.

"Good to see you again, boys," Delucci gave us all a quick nod and salute. "You all ready?"

"We're about to find out, aren't we?" the Master Sergeant replied.

"Indeed," Delucci agreed. He took a step back and gave my squad leader a nod. "Carry on, sergeant."

"Gentlemen!" the Master Sergeant barked to all of us, starting the age-old Helljumper pre-drop ritual. "Some of you have heard this question many times already! Some of you have heard it only a bare handful of times! But the beauty of this question is that no matter how often you hear it, no matter how many times you you are asked it, the answer always stays the same, as do the ones who utter it!" he cleared his throat and, with renewed vigor, shouted, "Gentlemen! _How will you be going into battle!_"

"_Feet first into Hell!_" we all roared the response—which also happened to be the ODST motto—in unison.

"_Fall out!_"

We broke ranks and moved to our respective drop pods. Each pod had the trooper's name engraved on the front ahead of time, but this was not for decoration. Not every drop was successful; there were instances where drop pods could lose trajectory and burn up in the atmosphere, or instances where the drag chutes or retro thrusters failed to deploy before impact. If the body in the pod was too…unrecognizable…having the trooper's name on the pod made identification much easier, or even a possibility.

I unsealed my drop pod, removed my sniper rifle from my back, and laid it down into the weapons groove to the left of the crash seat. I then climbed into the HEV pod, pulling the front down over me.

I settled into the crash seat and strapped myself in, making adjustments until I was sufficiently immobilized. I then took out the photo of Devereux and me, and I placed it on the window to my right.

With everything now set, I finally placed my helmet over my head and sealed it. I was ready to drop.

Captain Delucci stopped in front of my pod and rapped twice on the front with his knuckles. I answered by pounding twice on the side. _All set_.

I sat in silence for half a minute or so until the pod suddenly lurched. Those were the clamps engaging. The Master Sergeant started a thirty-second countdown over the SQUADCOM, and a dull mechanical whir sounded as our pods were lowered through the floor of the drop bay, down through the _Kronos's_ hull, until we were practically hanging out in space. I glanced down past my feet.

My stomach gave a little flutter as I saw what waited for me below; brilliant, jade-green land bordered by a sparkling blue ocean, overlayed with wispy white cirrus clouds. But all was not perfect; flashes and flames could also be seen from up here. The fires of war had come to Irivet V, that much was clear. The port city of Hellena was down there, somewhere…waiting for us.

The Master Sergeant finished his countdown.

There was a second, smaller lurch as the clamps were released, flinging our pods free into space. For the first minute or so, it was easy going. We were moving solely from the momentum of being released from the _Kronos_. But within a couple of minutes, my pod started to vibrate gently.

We had hit Irivet V's gravity well. From here on out, it would only get rougher.

"_Aw, shit-on-a-stick; here we go!_" Cajun's twangy tones issued through the SQUADCOM.

The ride started to get pretty shaky now as we dropped down like stones towards the surface of Irivet V. As we got closer, the HEV pod's altimeter was able to get a reading on the landmass below, and a large number appeared on the read-out to my left. It was constantly changing; getting lower and lower with every millisecond.

Gradually, the star-sprinkled black void of space turned to the deepest navy blue. That blue, in turn, began to get lighter and lighter, looking more and more like a sky.

Red tongues of flame started to lick at the edges of the windows for a few moments before they solidified into a steady, red-orange glow. The friction of reentry was beginning to hit the outer ceramic skin of the pod. To the outside eye, we would have looked like shooting stars; seven bright blazes with long wakes of fire trailing behind them as they fell.

The inside temperature of the pod started to go up. This was normal; you didn't just fall through an atmosphere and expect to not sweat. As long as the heat shield held, it would get hot in here, but bearably hot. If the heat shield failed…I would make it quick and painless. My fingers brushed the grip of my M6D magnum.

The pod was really shaking now; I always felt like my arms would be permanently dislocated if I spent much longer in this metal coffin.

"_Those pancakes and sausages_ really_ don't want to stay in my stomach anymore!_" Virgin groaned over the SQUADCOM.

The only response I was capable of sending would have sounded something like, "_Urrk_…" so I didn't reply at all.

Once we hit a specific altitude—3,000 feet, to be exact—the Master Sergeant got onto the SQUADCOM and ordered us to deploy our drag chutes.

I punched the appropriate panel to my right, and braced myself. My drag chute deployed, causing my pod to lurch violently as it decelerated. G-force ripped at my face, pushing back all of the sweat that had been pouring down from my hairline.

The drag chute snapped off, vanishing into the fiery red wake of my pod. I continued to fall towards the earth, albeit at a slower speed. The sky outside of my pod windows was now the familiar light blue that we all knew and loved. The view of the sky was blanked out momentarily as I dropped through a bank of clouds, but it quickly returned, the clouds now above me.

"_Retro thrusters _now!" the Master Sergeant screamed.

I was already pounding the rocket controls. The drop pod's retro thrusters—located on the underbelly—blazed to life, giving the HEV pod the final deceleration needed for a semi-safe landing. I let out a pained grunt as the drop pod jerked violently yet again. I winced as the straps that held me in place now became the cause of my pain.

I didn't complain too much, though. This was the second critical part of every drop where things could easily go wrong. Had the drag chute failed to deploy, or had the retro thrusters failed to engage, then my pod would have slammed into the ground at terminal velocity. That was the kind of death every Helljumper fears…we call it 'digging your own grave'.

After what seemed like hours of getting savagely shaken like a vodka martini—it was actually only about ten to fifteen seconds—I made landfall. My pod actually punched straight through what I think was some sort of restaurant before slamming into the asphalt of the street on the other side.

I shook my head, still slightly dazed from the impact. I removed my helmet quickly to get my picture of Soph back into its place before putting it back on, sealing it, and polarizing the visor until it looked like a silver mirror.

Next came the front of the HEV pod. I hit the mini-det packs that were located at four points along the seam of the pod's front. They blew the front of the drop pod clean off, sending it into the brick wall across the street.

"_Squad, rendezvous at my position! Move it!_" the Master Sergeant ordered.

As he spoke, a pulsing green arrow appeared on my HUD; the Master Sergeant's beacon. I turned back to my drop pod and removed my sniper rifle, slipping it onto my back. I then collected my grenades and got the hell out of there.

As I followed the Master Sergeant's beacon, I quickly became aware of what I was hearing in the background: plasmafire. Plasmafire, mixed with the sounds of our own weapons. There was a battle raging somewhere not too far away…something Captain Delucci had failed to mention.

The Master Sergeant was waiting for us in front of a car dealership. Pyro, Virgin, and Celt were there as well. "Good to see you in one piece, Scar."

"Likewise," I replied.

Yeah, 'Scar' was my callsign. Forgot to mention that. They gave me this name because of when they first met me back on Verus III, when that Elite who had spared my life nearly skewered me in the face with its energy blade. It hadn't gotten quite that far…but it _had_ managed to leave a scar on the left side of my face, running from my hairline down to my jaw.

I know, you're probably thinking how badass of a callsign that must be. That's what I thought, too, until I realized how many people would start making _Lion King_ jokes around me. The next person who whispers, "_Long live the King,_" or "_Hey! Pretend that Elite over there is Mufasa!_" to me is getting a fist down his throat.

Okay, maybe it was just my squad who made those jokes...but they're the ones I have to put up with the most. Still...beats having Virgin for a callsign.

Apache showed up a minute later. He asked if anyone had been hurt in the fall, but, thankfully, his services were unneeded. For now.

We waited another minute for Cajun, but he never showed, so the Master Sergeant started briefing us, saying that Cajun would just have to find out along the way. "Alright, from what Delucci's been telling me, the Covies are hitting this area with at least two full legions. We have a pair of mass drivers set up here that are blocking their cruisers from coming in and deploying troops straight into Ainsdell City. They're pounding Ainsdell into next year, don't get me wrong…but with Hellena glassed, their job in Ainsdell becomes a lot easier."

"What the hell does he want us to do, eh? Defend the whole bloody town?" Celt exclaimed. "We're supposed to be getting our arses to Mount Pylos!"

"Covies have anti-air emplacements all over the Ainsdell metropolis, as well as the Erebus Mountains," the Master Sergeant replied. "This is one of the only suitable landing zones on the Ionian landmass without running into Covie AA positions, or concentrations of Covenant forces. _We_ have to get to Mount Pylos, by any means necessary. And for now, getting to Mount Pylos means breaking through the siege the Covies have on this city."

"So, what do we do now?" Virgin asked next. "Are we just supposed to _walk_ the whole way to the front lines?"

As if the Universe had been eavesdropping on our tech specialist, we were all interrupted by the sound of a beeping horn and an accelerating engine. A huge, rusty-red pickup truck skidded around the corner a small distance down the street, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake, and rocketed it way toward us.

The truck driver slammed on the brakes and the pickup screamed to a stop right next to us, settling back onto its suspension. The window rolled down and Cajun—still laughing like a madman—looked out at us. "All y'all just gonna keep standin' there, now? Covies ain't getting' any younger, y'hear!"

"No, Virgin…" the Master Sergeant replied slowly. Even though his face was hidden by his polarized visor, I could tell he was grinning. "We _aren't_ walking the whole way."


	38. III Chapter 38: First Hurdle

Chapter Thirty-Eight: First Hurdle

**December 2, 2541 (Military Calendar) \  
Irivet V, Canis Serpentis System**

"_Stop the truck! For the love of God, stop the truck!_"

Cajun brought the pickup truck screaming to a halt just outside what looked like a regimental HQ. A wake of smoke and dust still hung in the air, evidence of Cajun's abuse of the pickup's accelerator. "Can't do shit like this with warthogs these days…" the Louisianan sounded disappointed that we were going to be switching rides.

"Dismount!" the Master Sergeant barked. We were all too happy to comply; Cajun had had _way_ too much fun driving this thing.

I stood up slowly, making sure my breakfast was going to stay right where it was before moving around. Satisfied that vomiting wasn't going to be on today's agenda, I vaulted myself over the lip of the pickup's open rear compartment, landing on both feet. Apache, Pyro, and the others followed suit.

The Master Sergeant climbed out of the front section with Cajun, waiting for the rest of us to gather. Once we were good to go, we all set off as one towards the bustling regimental command post.

In the command tent, we found a bird colonel who introduced himself as the commander of the 77th Marine Regiment. He quickly briefed us on what was happening in the local area…as if we hadn't already deduced that for ourselves.

"Truth is, the Covies seem to have lost some of their mojo here," the Colonel said to us. "I fought the bastards on _Harvest,_ for Chrissake, where they turned us into bloody pulps every time they even _thought_ about attacking. Here, though…they aren't quite as strong. We're actually holding our own pretty well."

"The Covenant battlegroup that arrived in this system was only a reconnaissance group," the Master Sergeant explained, telling the regimental commander what Captain Delucci had told us. "They weren't looking for a fight, and they probably aren't equipped to participate in one…but I'd expect they'd be punished by their superiors if they simply discovered one of our colonies and didn't rough it up a little bit."

The Colonel shrugged. "I don't care why they do what they do; that's ONI's job. I'm paid to turn them into cold-cuts. The ones attacking us here are a fraction of their main host, which is pounding the rest of our Expeditionary Unit over in the Ainsdell area. Once our armored reinforcements arrive here, though, we'll roll 'em up like flypaper. Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?"

"We're working under the authority of ONI; if you desire, I can show you the appropriate credentials-" the Master Sergeant started to say, but the Colonel waved him off.

"No need to worry about that; I'll take your word for it," the Colonel muttered. "I don't have time to waste, unlike those spooks."

"Our mission is classified, but we require transport west," the Master Sergeant explained. "Two warthogs should suit our needs just fine."

"You're heading towards Ainsdell?" the Colonel cocked a surprised eyebrow. "Just the seven of you? Alone?"

"That's the plan."

The regimental commander shook his head slowly in what looked like disbelief. "Either your brains burned up in the atmosphere, or you're all escaped nutjobs dressed up in Helljumper costumes. You're going to cross through six hundred kilometers of hostile territory without any kind of support."

"We'll link up with one of your divisions in the Erebus Mountains."

The Colonel held up a hand, ceasing all further conversation. "Tell you what…there's a concentration of Covenant artillery pounding my southern flank. I'll give you the two warthogs in good faith if you agree to silence those plasma mortars. Getting rid of that damn artillery will allow me to take a nearby Covie strongpoint. You take down that artillery, those warthogs are yours."

"Sir, our mission could affect the entire UNSC," Virgin interrupted impatiently. "We don't have time to be-"

"Put a cork in it, Virgin," the Master Sergeant growled before returning his attention to the regimental commander. He extended a hand and said, "It's a deal, sir."

The Colonel gave a cold smile, shaking my squad leader's hand. "I'm glad we understand each other. You boys had better get moving."

The regimental commander snapped us all a quick salute, which we returned before filing out.

"This is such bullshit," Virgin grumbled as we made our way towards the motor pool. "Delucci said that the package we're securing could very well turn the tide of the war. We don't have time to play errand-boy for every regular we stumble across!"

"We're lucky that Colonel cooperated so easily," Pyro shot back. "Regular infantry commanders are extremely territorial when it comes to outsiders jacking their equipment."

"Why didn't we just tell them we were on a high-priority mission for ONI? Our mission takes much more precedence over regular operations."

"I'd have told you guys to fuck off and die if you'd tried that on me," I shrugged.

"_Mm-hm,_" the Master Sergeant grunted in agreement. "That's what any regular officer would have said to us. We could have brought ONI into it, but it would have been unwise. When you're not a rookie anymore, you'll understand."

"But I'm _not_ the rookie, anymore," Virgin complained. "I've been here longer than _him,_" the tech specialist pointed at me. "_He's_ the rookie, now."

"_Ha!_" Cajun guffawed. "Yeah, sure; you been in this squad longer. But Scar been off fightin' them Covie fuckers before _you_ was outta yer goddamn diapers."

The argument quickly fizzled down after that. I know, this kind of cast Virgin in somewhat of a negative light—and at times he _could_ be an insufferable cuss—but he was an incredibly unique specimen. Picture the stereotypical geek from your High School—pocket protector, thick glasses, socially awkward, high-pitched voice, better with equations than with members of the opposite sex, etc. etc. That was, more or less, what Private 1st Class Wesley Daniels resembled—minus the glasses and pocket protector, naturally. Why else had he been given 'Virgin' as a callsign?

And yet, he had survived ODST selection. He was a geek with a core of titanium. Sure, he didn't live for battle the way people like Cajun or Pyro did…but don't make the mistake of underestimating him. He's got more bravery in his little finger than I've seen in other people.

I moved to climb into the driver's seat of one of our warthogs, but Cajun gripped my shoulder and hauled me back out. "You ain't shovin' _me_ into no passenger seat," he chuckled, hopping behind the wheel.

Whatever. I was a competent driver—back during my days with the 9th Force Recon, and during the Harvest Campaign before that, I was usually a driver whenever vehicles were involved—but with Cajun, it was like a second nature. I usually had no problem yielding the driver's seat to him.

I grabbed shotgun, climbing in next to Cajun. Celt took our turret. "Let's get this junk heap onto the road," I grunted.

"Watch yer mouth, Scar," Cajun warned me, punching the ignition and throwing the hog into gear. "Ain't a good thing t'be badmouthin' our fair lady so early on."

"Fair lady?" Celt echoed.

"That's what she is."

"She's a pile o' shite on feckin' wheels; ain't no way ye kin try ta say it different," the Irish helljumper rolled his eyes, priming the turret and getting ready to open fire on anything inhuman that got in our way.

Cajun glanced back at Celt briefly, probably raising an eyebrow in bewilderment—it was impossible for me to tell for certain with the polarized faceplates of our helmets. "I've no idea _what_ in tarnation that was, Celt, but it sure's fuck weren't English."

"I could say the same thing to you, Cajun," I reminded the boisterous Louisianan. Both Cajun and Celt's respective accents could intensify beyond the point of civilized language when they got agitated or revved up—driving straight into a battle had accomplished that.

"Can't hardly say the same to me, Scar," Cajun said reproachfully, sounding almost genuinely hurt. Almost. "You're from Harvest; your roots came from the same country as me. Celt's a whole damn breed apart!"

I shrugged. "Still can't understand a damn thing that comes out of your mouth, sometimes."

Cajun pressed the accelerator, following the Master Sergeant's warthog down the avenue. We started sliding through the outskirts of Hellena, past the low, flat buildings and domiciles of those who wanted to live close to the city without actually being _in_ it.

Pretty soon, the buildings thinned out and the forest started taking hold.

Cajun hadn't quite gotten our conversation out of his head yet. Even the sound of loudening gunfire and plasma discharge wasn't enough to make him forget about the fact that his accent mangled his speech worse than a woodchipper would mangle an ice sculpture.

"It ever occur ta you that maybe, just _maybe,_ yer tight-assed little way of speaking might sound as alien to me as good ole' Cajun do to _you_, now?"

I hesitated, pretending to think about it for a moment, then simply answered, "No."

"Well, can't argue with ya, there, 'cause you be right," Cajun chuckled, his bluff having been called. But he wasn't ready to throw in the towel just yet. "Your accent's boring, though. Easy to understand ev'ry word; that jus' ain't no fun, now."

"_For the last time, Cajun; no one gives a rat's ass,_" the Master Sergeant sighed over the COM. This wasn't the first time Cajun had gotten onto the topic of his thick accent. "Now focus, people. We're getting close."

A company-grade officer up at the front lines pointed us in the direction of the Covenant artillery next that had been giving them so much grief.

"You boys must have left a healthy helping of sanity back in the atmosphere when you dropped in," the Captain shook his head in surprise when the Master Sergeant informed him as to the nature of our little excursion to this neck of the woods. "Those damn mortars are due northwest; head a little ways in that direction, then just follow the blue streaks."

The officer wasn't the first to call us loony, and—let's be honest with ourselves—he sure as hell wouldn't be the last. People questioning our sanity was always a good reminder that we were doing our job right. After all, Helljumpers were made to go into the shit that was too deep for regulars.

_And Spartans were made to go into the shit ONI considers too deep for _you…

I shook my head, clearing those thoughts before the usual feelings of resentment could surface. Most Helljumpers were…well, we weren't exactly amicable about the Spartans. I mean, who _would_ think rosy thoughts about people who had pretty much been made to be better than you? It was like a slap in the face, like ONI Section III was telling us, 'Oh, you did a good job, but let the grown-ups handle it, now.'

Rumor had it that back before the war even started, ONI had pitted a few ODSTs against a Spartan so that they could test the supersoldier's…well, to test whatever made them _supersoldiers; _to make sure it had worked. Well, it had; the rumor was that this Spartan had beat these poor bastards into the next millennium—two or three had even been killed. Truth or myth, this rumor had only fueled Helljumper negativity towards Spartans.

I didn't actively share in the hatred of the supersoldiers. Sometimes I got flak for it from other Helljumpers, but my reasons for this were simple: Spartans had saved my sorry hide back on Verus III. Had it not been for them, I would not be here right now. As such, I refused to fall into the stereotypical Helljumper attitude towards them.

I won't pretend to be above those petty emotions, though. Had I not been saved by Spartans during the Siege of Cedar Rapids, I would probably hate them as much as the next ODST. Even with the fact that they had saved my unit, I could feel the resentment and bitterness that other ODSTs expressed, simmering at the borders of my consciousness.

Sure, I'm not proud of it, but I'm Human. Humans aren't exactly ideal and noble creatures. We aren't saints. We're greedy, angry little things who hold grudges, and I'm no exception.

"Scar, get outta yer brain for a second, will ya?" Cajun's gravelly tones shook me from my thoughts.

I really enjoyed my position as a sniper in this squad. Before, when I had served as a squad leader in the 9th Force Recon, I really couldn't retreat into my thoughts as much because I had to…you know…_lead_ other people. Now, that yoke was off my shoulders. Even so…

"Why?" I murmured. "What possible use could a sniper be from the passenger seat of a moving vehicle? Especially when there aren't even any Covies to send to the afterlife yet?"

Cajun gave a quiet chuckle. "One; you're an atheist—you can't make afterlife jokes. And two; I don' want you zonin' off when you're ridin' next ta _me_. You wouldn't want Celt noddin' off when he's spottin' fer ya, wouldja?"

"Just shut up and drive," I grunted, though I did see his point, loath as I was to concede to him in an argument.

"_A-feckin'-men,_" Celt muttered from the turret.

"Anyone ask to hear yer lil' singsong voice, Celt?" Cajun retaliated. "No; _no one_ did. Shut yer damn piehole 'n lemme drive."

I don't think an outsider would pick up on the fact that we were actually good friends despite the verbal abuse we imposed on one another. But then again, we never really troubled ourselves with what outsiders thought of us. Outsiders weren't the ones dropping through the atmosphere in blazing metal coffins, now, were they?

Plasmafire started to whiz through the air around us. The Covies had defenses up around here, alright; we were about to plow right into them.

I think the fact that we were only two warthogs strong worked to our advantage. Had the Covies seen an all-out assault on their lines—I'm talking dozens of warthogs supported by a battalion of infantry and maybe even a few tanks—they would have marshaled their defenses like they meant it. They weren't really expecting our side to be stupid enough to charge their line with two measly warthogs.

Thing is, two warthogs can get places two _dozen_ of them can't. Still, though…I've been a veteran for a long time, but this had to be the first time I had been in a vehicle bombing through an enemy position. I had done something similar during the Harvest Campaign, when my unit at that time had been sent in to clear the ruins of Utgard, but that had been different. It had been part of a huge assault on the city ruins.

This was just two warthogs slipping through the cracks. We hadn't just charged at whatever part of the Covie line we fancied, either; the Master Sergeant had said this segment of their defenses was the weakest. No idea how he could tell from our vantage point, but I was willing to take his word for it.

A plasma cannon opened up on us from somewhere off to the right. I winced as several of the plasma bolts lanced into the side of our warthog. _My_ side, to be specific; hence the squeamishness.

"_I'm angling left, Cajun,_" the Master Sergeant informed the Louisianan over the SQUADCOM. "_You might want to follow me in_."

Cajun gave a sharp bark of laughter. "To Hell an' back with that, Sarge," he responded. "I'll be makin' my _own_ entrance, now."

I could almost hear the Master Sergeant's shrug over the COM, even though such a gesture made no noise. "_Have it your way, trooper,_" my squad leader said. He was used to Cajun taking things into his own hands when vehicles were involved. "_If you get yourself blown up, you owe me a new sniper_."

"And what about me, eh?" Celt asked over the COM. "Do I mean nothing to ye, Master Sergeant darlin'?"

"_A new sniper and a new Irishman,_" the Master Sergeant corrected himself. Celt gave a dissatisfied grunt at that, but didn't say anything more.

A stream of plasma started peppering the ground around us from the flank, I glanced over and swore, gripping the side of the warthog. "Ghost!" I warned the others. "Watch your asses!"

Celt swiveled the turret around and opened fire on the Covie vehicle. He started to laugh maniacally as the hail of lead started to drill into the enemy assault craft's chassis. Apache was firing from the other warthog's turret as well, adding his own firepower to Celt's.

Sparks flashed all over the chassis of the ghost as it bore the brunt of Celt and Apache's combined fire. Pieces and chunks of the purple alloy started to come loose and fly off.

One of the plasma charges actually managed to clip my right shoulder, but it was just a graze. My armor barely even scorched, but still…had I not been leaning forward, had the bolt been a few inches farther forward, had it been lower, had it been-

_Stop it, Alley_. I stopped thinking like that. When you have close calls with the Grim Reaper, you could drive yourself mad thinking about the infinite possibilities of what _could_ have happened. Such things were best left in the past.

Finally, there was a small explosion in the driver's seat of the ghost. One of the heavy slugs must have clipped the grunt driver's methane tank. It was a rare way of taking down a ghost—blowing a grunt's methane tank—but when it _did_ happen, it was a glorious sight to see.

The ghost, now without anything to operate it, fell to the ground, its anti-grav emitters shutting down. The craft itself, which was still moving at an excess of one hundred-fifty or so kilometers an hour, exploded in a fiery haze as its nose caught the ground, causing the whole damn thing to flip up and crash.

We were getting pretty close to the Covenant positions, by now. I glanced up, watching the crackling blue plasma bolts from the plasma mortars arcing up into the sky. I couldn't see where on the ground they were coming from, but I could tell that we were getting close.

The Covies could tell, too. The plasmafire started to thicken.

"_Never been so glad that Covies don't use trenches!_" Virgin, who was driving the other warthog, grunted.

Cajun gave a hum of agreement. He may have been second to none behind a steering wheel, but he still had his limits. We were going to bull through the Covie defenses; had we discovered that we had to traverse trenches, we would have found ourselves in a very bad fix.

"Might want to angle for that dirt mound!" I shouted, pointing at one of the Covenant cannon nests. They would dig a large foxhole of sorts, pile all the displaced earth in the front, and mount plasma cannons on the lip of the fortification. Those kinds of defenses had given me a few gray hairs in the past, but now they were actually going to _help_ us. Imagine that.

"No backseat driving, now," Cajun scolded me. Even so, the Louisianan nudged the wheel, gunning straight for that cannon nest. He had seen the advantages offered by the makeshift ramp of piled earth in front of the fortifications.

As it turned out, Cajun didn't deviate from the other warthog's path; the Master Sergeant had the same idea I did. His warthog went first. As I said before, Virgin may not seem like your typical Helljumper, but he had guts of titanium. The tech specialist accelerated to the warthog's highest speed capability.

Pyro actually managed to loose a rocket into the cannon nest, taking out the foremost turret before his warthog actually hit the dirt. Virgin pressed the accelerator as far as it could go, sending the warthog shooting up the mound of dirt and over the Covie defenders' heads.

"Our turn!" Cajun shouted, revving the engine. "Might wanna hold onto somethin'!"

Celt howled as Cajun opened up on the throttle, letting loose a stream of heavy Irish profanity that left my ears feeling like they had just been violated with a radioactive q-tip.

Cajun squeezed every drop of speed he could out of our warthog as we raced towards the plasma cannon nest. The makeshift ramp of dirt—the other warthog's tire tracks were deeply imprinted on it—grew closer and closer. Cajun let out a whoop as we hit the mound of dirt. The warthog roared up the incline and flew up into the air, its tires spinning madly with nothing to drive on as we sailed over the Covies' heads.

"_Beck moi tchew feet pue tan!_" Cajun spat at the Elites heading up the plasma cannon nest once we hit the ground and started to streak away deeper into Covenant-held ground. I knew it was Cajun French for 'Kiss my ass', or something along those lines. It was one of the phrases I heard Cajun utter in his native language more often than others. I understood some French from my time with Sophie Devereux, but Cajun French was…well, it was definitely _not_ normal French; I could barely understand a word of it when Cajun started rambling on in it.

It had never really occurred to me how diverse my squad was. Many of us had English as a second language; Cajun had his Cajun French, the Master Sergeant—who was from the State of Israel on Earth—could speak fluent Hebrew, Celt pretty much had his own language, and Apache spoke…well, I wasn't really sure _what_ he spoke, but sometimes I would hear him murmuring in some old, probably Native American dialect. I think it was Lakota. Yeah, that's it; Lakota.

None of which really mattered now, of course, with plasma flying past our ears.

"_Head due northwest!_" the Master Sergeant ordered us. Cajun pulled the warthog into a gradual turn, following Virgin's arc towards the source of those crackling blue bolts of death streaking through the sky.

"Jesus H!" I shouted, ducking as a plasma overcharge seared through the air near where my head had been. "What the hell was war like _before_ they invented these things?" I exclaimed, gesturing at the warthog.

I tried to imagine it; fighting battles without vehicles, without air support, maybe even without artillery. Just men and guns. How had they done it back before the Space Age? How had they _done_ it?

I didn't waste time trying to shoot anything with my sidearm from the passenger seat; at the speed we were moving, hitting anything would have been a miracle and a half. Better not to waste my ammunition.

We didn't really even kill a whole lot of Covenant. Our intent was to simply bull right through their lines, not stop and kill as many as we could. The only ones we killed were the ones who fell prey to the LAAG turrets, or who were unlucky enough to get in the way of our vehicles. Covie blood had quickly spattered across the windshield, but Cajun had cleared most of it away with the windshield wipers and the ammonium jets.

Finally, after cresting the third or so hill—dodging Covenant assault platforms along the way—we saw where the bastards were keeping their mortars. They were nestled in between this hill and the next; the small valley was full of boulders and rocky crags, providing the mortars with adequate cover from above. Anti-aircraft emplacements were also scattered throughout the area, which would explain why these mortars had not been already wiped out by UNSC aircraft.

Powerful as they were, the garrison defending this sector had not been counting on two warthogs of Helljumpers showing up out of nowhere. They had probably heard the plasmafire and expected tanks at the very least, but I think the presence of just two warthogs initially threw them for a loop.

Our turret gunners turned their attention onto the grunts and Elites manning the plasma mortar emplacements.

There were two Hunter pairs here, as well. I hoped we would be able to waste the mortars and get the hell out of dodge before we had to deal with those bad boys, but what I hoped for and what I got were often two very different things.

One of these Hunters was wasted by Virgin, who plowed his warthog straight into the Covie behemoth. Strong as the Hunters were, even they weren't able to stand up to over three tons of UNSC steel screaming into them at one hundred-twenty kilometers per hour.

The other warthog's bumper was knocked off and the front chassis was crumpled a tad bit, but the vehicle as a whole was perfectly fine. The same couldn't be said for the pulped Hunter.

Pyro fired a rocket at one of the mortar emplacements. The plasma ignited, consuming everything around it in a five-yard radius. Another, overcome by Celt's turret, detonated in a similar fashion.

"Cajun! See if you can get us behind one of those Hunters and bring us to a stop!" I called over to the Louisianan ODST. Green flashes started to go off all over the place as the Hunters began firing their shoulder cannons. Several grunts also held fuel-rod guns, and they would be a good deal of trouble as well if they weren't dealt with.

This went on for another two or three minutes; our two warthogs roving around the mortar nest, evading fuel rod shots and other tools of destruction aimed our way. We took down the two dozen or so mortars one by one.

At one point, Cajun even managed to fulfill my request and get us behind a Hunter with its back turned. He screeched to a halt, shouting for me to hurry up. While I leveled my sniper rifle and took aim, he took out his M319 grenade launcher and shot off a few frags towards the Elites who were trying to give us a rough time. The ones who lost their shields were quickly mopped up by Celt.

I centered my crosshairs, held my breath, and fired. My shot was true; it thucked straight into the gap in the Hunter's back armor, ripping up most of the worms in there. The Hunter didn't even groan or roar; it simply pitched forward, dead. Now we just had to be wary of its raving bond brother.

Another mortar went up in flames.

Apache tore through a line of grunts with his turret, incinerating a few of them by hitting their methane tanks, and turning the rest into lead sandwiches. He and Celt then teamed up briefly to take down a third Hunter, which had lost most of its frontal armor from the constant barrage of lead, and also from one of the grenades Cajun had fired earlier.

It wasn't until another two additional minutes later that the final mortar was put out of commission permanently. The moment it blew, the Master Sergeant got onto the COM and ordered us to get the hell out of here. Cajun was all too happy to oblige.

The Louisianan shouted more obscenities in Cajun French back at the Covies we left in the dust as we accelerated away.

Personally, I just set my sniper rifle down next to me and rested my head back. We weren't out of the woods, yet; we would have to find a safe place and lay low for a while until the Covies stopped sending out aerial patrols to look for us, but we had made it through the first hurdle. With any luck, the marines defending Hellena would probably be able to mount a successful assault on the Covenant lines in this area, now that the mortars were out of commission. If they could force a gasp here and pour in, the Covies would be divided. Once the armored reinforcements arrived in this area, the Covies would then get rolled up and fried.

But that was in the hands of the regulars, not us. We had more important matters to attend to…starting with getting to a safe place, then getting our asses to Mount Pylos.

I settled back into a more comfortable position. It was going to be a long ride.


	39. III Chapter 39: Covenant Jaywalkers

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Covenant Jaywalkers

**December 3, 2541 (Military Calendar) \  
Irivet V, Canis Serpentis System**

To Mount Pylos or bust.

No, we weren't pioneers or frontiersmen. If we didn't make it to the Erebus Mountains, we wouldn't just turn around, go back home, and tell everyone, 'Well, we tried'. If we didn't make it to the Erebus Mountains, it would be because we were dead.

And they thought pioneers had it rough. At least they weren't in danger of becoming an extinct species.

We had been steadily making our way west for a day, now. The trek was taking a little while; normally, we could have made the trip by warthog in a few hours without interruption. But, see, that was the thing; we couldn't go without interruption.

Yesterday, my squad had broken through the Covenant lines and thoroughly effed up a good number of their mortars. Ever since then, banshees and phantoms had been patrolling the skies around the area, looking for us. Killing their mortars seemed to have left them pretty butthurt, because they were still out hunting for us.

There had even been a couple of ground patrols that had passed us by, but not many. While this ground technically was under Covenant control, the Covies weren't actually _occupying_ it. It was mostly empty land. Any civilians who had lived in this area must have evacuated ahead of time, or else… I shuddered to think of what fate befell those who didn't get out in time. Grunts and jackals had nasty appetites…

"Not to sound like a whiny bitch…but are we there yet?" Virgin asked from the other warthog.

"We aren't moving," Pyro pointed out to the tech specialist. This was the truth; we had been waiting in the middle of some forest for an hour or two; several Covie air patrols had flown over us earlier in the morning, and we didn't want to keep moving until long after they were gone.

"Really? We're not moving?" Virgin echoed. "_Thank_ you, Pyro…I never would have noticed that we aren't moving. You'd almost think I was being sarcastic."

"I'd like to see you try an' bitch with my arm down your throat, Captain Computer," Pyro growled in response.

"Can it, both of you," the Master Sergeant intervened, almost lazily. This wasn't the first time he had defused intra-squad arguments. My squad leader then leaned over and punched his warthog's ignition. "While we're on the subject, though, it _is_ about time we got moving again. Keep an eye out for Covie fliers."

"_Oi,_" Celt reached forward and slapped the snoring Cajun over the scalp. "Wakey-wakey, sunshine darlin'."

"_Mmrhmm_…" the Louisianan grumbled as he stirred. "Couldn'ta waited another minute…them girls in my dreams was 'bout ta take off their-"

"We get the idea, Cajun, thank you," I cut my squadmate off, not interested in hearing the details of another one of his womanizing dreams. They made me miss Sophie Devereux even more badly than I already did now. I hadn't seen her since I had left New Harmony for Helljumper training, four years ago. All I had to remind me of her were good memories of our conquests in the utility closet at Fort Braxton on New Harmony, and the photo of her I kept in my helmet.

Maybe I would get shore leave sometime in the future…but with my squad working with ONI so much these days, it was unlikely.

Cajun yawned and stretched, scratching the short, bristly beard that had sprouted from the lower half of his face. His usual horseshoe mustache had blended in with the rest of the facial hair; it was starting to get longer than regulation length and would have to be trimmed soon.

The Louisianan pulled on his helmet, polarized it, and started the engine, gripping the steering wheel. "_Can't let a man dream in peace_…" he was muttering under his breath as he got us moving.

Our warthogs crunched out onto the dirt road and we started moving eastward once more, like Lewis and Clark plowing towards the Pacific, albeit in the opposite direction.

There were no Covie air patrols in this area, thank Christ. After the first hour, we'd probably gotten far enough away that their web wouldn't be able to pick us up.

As we drove along, I found myself feeling more and more grateful that Elites were leading the Covies on this colony. Odds were that they would never retreat until all of them were either dead, or safe in any of their vessels…if our Navy hadn't mopped them all up, by now.

The point was that the Covies attacking Hellena were unlikely to pack up and join with the rest of their forces in Ainsdell because that would entail running away from Humans, something they would rather eat lava than do. Once the marines in Hellena got their armored reinforcements, they would be able to easily roll up those Covies without having to worry about them slipping away.

It was a weird feeling, having the upper hand on the ground and actually _knowing_ it. I hadn't experienced this since New Harmony, when all we had been up against were scattered pockets of Covenant.

Of course, ground warfare wasn't the reason why we were losing this war so badly. It _contributed_ to our losing, but it wasn't the actual reason. The actual reason was because the Covenant Navy could bend the UNSC Navy over and sodomize it without even breaking a sweat. Loath as I was to admit it, victories in space always trumped victories on the ground; Covenant vessels were perfectly capable of glassing worlds that UNSC ground forces had secured.

After a while, by the time the sun was starting to sink into the west, I was bored out of my mind. This was exactly the same as one of those long car rides to a vacation—something I've never experienced, by the way. My first vacation was supposed to be a road trip to the Hugin Sea in the north of Harvest, back when I was five years old. My father had been going there for something to do with his job, and he was going to take me with him…then I come down with a stomach virus, so my dad goes north by himself.

A drunk driver and a traffic collision later, I was an orphan. Not exactly off to what most would call a 'good start,' eh?

But if I _had_ ever been on a long road trip, it would probably feel something like this. Sitting with nothing to do except count passing trees and feel your beard growing in.

"I spy with my little eye…something white," I droned.

I had barely even finished speaking when Cajun answered, "_Clouds_."

"Uh-huh…" I sighed.

Celt's turn. "I spy wit' me little eye…somethin' gr-"

"_Trees,_" Cajun interrupted again.

"Aye."

Cajun started to go. "Uh…I spy with my little eye-"

"_Sky,_" I muttered, not even bothering to wait for the color.

Cajun gave me a sidelong glance, wondering how I had known what he was thinking of. Well, the answer to that was simple; we had already used the same handful of things at least eight or nine times, already. I figured he'd either go for sky, or grass. Though grass would be green, and Celt had already _used_ green last turn, so it was a fair guess that Cajun would say-

I shook my head again, yanking myself out of the currents of my own thoughts. I reflexively moved to massage my temples, but then remembered that I was wearing a helmet about half a second later. I let my hands drop back onto my lap.

"_Are we there yet?_" Virgin was asking again.

"_Virgin, if you ask that one more time, I swear to Christ's Holy Bowels_-" Pyro got onto the SQUADCOM and started showering our technical specialist with all kinds of threats involving the rearranging of his anatomy and facial bones. Pyro was a typical Helljumper—short-tempered and even a little jumpy, but solid as a rock under pressure.

Apparently, Corporal Lucullus Jackson had been a maintenance worker in a shipyard on Arcadia. He knew rocket launchers inside and out, as marines on his base had often paid him under the table to clean them up and get them into peak condition. Then the Covies came and slammed Arcadia; Pyro picks up one of the SPNKrs he was repairing and goes to town with it, actually helping to rebuff an assault on Pirth City, the capital.

His actions would not go unnoticed by the higher-ups.

After Arcadia, Jackson would end up in the marine regulars, and then eventually in the Flaming 105th as a Helljumper. He aptly got the callsign 'Pyro,' in honor of his love of deadly UNSC fireworks.

The only one of us who didn't seem to be bothered by the long wait was Apache, our medic. Unlike the rest of us, he seemed completely relaxed, which was pretty normal for him. He was probably the only one of us who I had never seen actually angry. He was the kind of guy who could stand still for hours just watching a sunset or something, and not get bored.

I propped my feet up over the dashboard and took off my helmet. Sure, maybe it wasn't the best idea, but it was somewhat difficult to have a cig with an ODST helmet covering my face.

I exhaled the smoke from the first drag into the wind, which snatched it away within moments. I closed my eyes and rested my head back, silently puffing on the cig. Sure, maybe I was a bit of an addict…but the way I saw it, the Covies would kill me a lot faster than lung cancer.

After another long stretch of nothing, Cajun finally started to speak again, but he didn't get far. "I spy with my little-"

"_Shut up!_" Celt and I snapped in unison.

Nothing broke the monotony of the drive until we finally hit a paved highway. A ghost of a smile flickered across my face. Now, we could really gun it.

"What road is this?" Cajun asked over the SQUADCOM.

"_It's Route-272,_" Virgin responded. "_This is the highway that links Hellena and Ainsdell. If fact, it actually continues past Ainsdell and crosses Route-48, which runs down into the Erebus Mountains_."

"_We have a winner, boys,_" the Master Sergeant declared.

It was decided that we would follow this highway past Ainsdell, and if we ran into anymore Covie aerial patrols, we would get back off the beaten path.

"_There shouldn't be any Covenant presence in this area, anyway,_" the Master Sergeant continued. "_Colonial Militia are holding the towns of Lexington and Prospice to the southwest, and the forces in Ainsdell are keeping the Covies to the north at bay. We're going through a corridor, right now._"

"A safe corridor? Really?" Celt didn't sound convinced.

"_Affirmative_."

"Then would ye mind explainin' ta me why the TACMAP be pickin' up hostile contacts a klick up the road?"

That got a raised eyebrow from me. "Come again?" I asked. Celt must have been the only one looking at the TACMAP built into our VISR because everyone else was murmuring similar questions.

I had to put my helmet back on to see the VISR, so I was content to take the others' words for it. Sure enough, Cajun swore under his breath. "Paddy bastard's right…"

"Orders, Sarge?" I asked my squad leader.

"_Same as before,_" the Master Sergeant responded, his voice not even slightly betraying any hint of the alarm or surprise he must have been feeling. "_Bull right through. We have places to be, and engaging a Covie flanking force on our lonesome would _not_ do wonders for our life expectancies._"

"Y'all think we should tell our friends up in Ainsdell o' what's a-comin' their way?" Cajun suggested.

"_Already done, Cajun,_" the Master Sergeant replied. "_Focus on driving_."

"_Why don't we just go around them?_" Virgin asked next, raising a valid point.

"_Can't spare the time we'd lose,_" the Master Sergeant said. "_Reports are coming in of Covenant aircraft making recon runs over the Erebus Mountains; Mount Pylos isn't going to remain a secret much longer._"

That was all we needed…fighting our way into Mount Pylos, then fighting back out and making a daring getaway with the Package, whatever it was. Sounded like fun. Not.

"How did our TACMAPs pick up those signatures, anyway?" I asked Celt or Cajun, whoever could answer. "They work well enough for close range, but picking up hostile contacts a _kilometer_ away? They shouldn't be able to do that."

"Are ye complainin', Scar?" Celt asked somewhat accusingly.

"Fuck no, man," I was quick to respond. "Just curious, is all."

"Eh…I think it was prob'ly Capn' Delucci. He usually monitors us from orbit; a ship's sensors'd easily pick up a Covie convoy," Cajun surmised.

"Why not just tell us outright?"

"Because if the dear Captain transmits to us over a COM frequency," Celt explained, "he might as well light a bloody signal flare o'er our heads. All he can do from orbit is give us a lil' peek, 'n pray that we're watchin'."

I wished I had an M7, or an MA5B, or _something_ on hand that I could use to shoot at Covies that tried to blow us up. All I had was my sniper rifle, and that didn't come in much handy while in a moving vehicle. The only thing that really worked in the passenger seat of a warthog was a shotgun for anything that came up close. Pyro was also able to fire rockets from the passenger seat…but I wasn't Pyro, and he had the squad's only SPNKr.

We crested the next incline, and the Covenant flanking force came into full view—a large column of shadow heavy transports and wraiths, accompanied by dozens of ghosts, specters, and revenant light tanks. Basically your average Covenant armored legion. Judging by the status of the Covenant forces here as part of a reconnaissance mission, I think it's safe to assume that they were throwing almost all of their armored strength into this flanking attack on Ainsdell.

While this weakened the rest of their lines, if they succeeded in forcing a gap in the Ainsdell defenses, they would cut the capital of Irivet V off from the colonial militia to the southwest as well as split Ainsdell in half…after mopping up the remnants of UNSC resistance, they could then regroup, head west, and completely steamroll through Hellena.

A wry grin crept across my face. I had been an ODST for four years, but I was still thinking like an infantry sergeant. I forced myself to stop thinking about the ramifications and consequences of the Covenant flanking force succeeding or failing in their mission; they were the problem of the regulars in Ainsdell. Our problem lay to the southeast, under Mount Pylos.

As I gazed southeast, I could just barely begin to see the peaks of the Erebus Mountains. We weren't close, yet…but we were making progress. We _were_ close enough to see the smoke rising in the eastern horizon—evidence of the Covies' handiwork in Ainsdell City.

"Scar! Snap out of it!"

_Damn it all_… I shook my head yet again, clearing my thoughts.

"Sarge's got balls, I gotta give 'im that," Cajun reasoned. "Ain't many men I know who'd order us to charge straight through that mess."

"Yes, I wanna grow up ta be just like him," Celt muttered. "_We_ still be the ones goin' into the meatgrinder, balls or no balls!"

"I'm telling ya, I can't understand a single fuckin' thing you're sayin'!" Cajun shouted over the accelerating engine. As Celt started delving into his Irish roots and began cussing the Louisianan out, using language and obscenities that made me almost want to cringe, Cajun held up a hand and interrupted saying, "Yeah, yeah; stop shouting and hold onto somethin'! This here's gonna get a lil' bumpy!"

I took one last drag from my smoke, then tossed it away and put my helmet back on. I was going to need it.

I don't think the Covies noticed us until we were actually bearing down on them. I mean, why would they expect anyone would be crazy enough to plow right _through_ them? They obviously haven't encountered Helljumpers—and certainly not Spartans—before.

"Aim for ghosts!" I called back. "The armor on everything else is too thick to make any difference!"

"Ya think I don't bloody well know that?" Celt snapped.

Cajun let out a maniacal cackle, flooring the accelerator as far as it would go. The warthog lurched as it switched gears, then really started to spit gravel as it reached its top speeds.

"If you get us killed in a crash, I'm never talking to you again!" I howled, clutching at my seat until my knuckles turned bone-white.

"I can live with that!" Cajun shouted back.

I decided not to point out the unintentional irony of his response; I was too focused on not getting thrown clear off the vehicle. Celt was getting jerked around a good amount, too, but he at least had the turret to hold onto.

Celt opened fire, peppering the nearest ghost with lead. Pieces of the Covie vehicle's chassis went flying, ripped off by the LAAG's firepower.

The shadow transports and wraiths started maneuvering this way and that, disrupting the smooth flow of the convoy. Covie vehicles were trying to spin and rotate, trying to get us in their sights. Luckily, we had enough speed to avoid becoming easy targets. However, difficult targets were still targets nonetheless…

A roiling blue plasma bolt whooshed overhead as a wraith opened fire.

"Ghost at three o'clock!" I screamed as I spotted one of the Covie assault vehicles gunning right for us from the right.

"On it!" Celt swung the turret around and blazed away at the oncoming ghost, knocking it off course. The ghost, thrown about by the LAAG's firepower, flipped head-over-tail and ended up crashing into one of the wraiths. The ghost went up in flames, but the wraith was only dented.

The revenants started opening fire, too. I was more worried about them than the wraiths; they had stronger weapons than ghosts, and were faster and more maneuverable than wraiths. Pretty much a combo of the advantages of both vehicles. Good for them, shitty for us.

Cajun wrenched the steering wheel, throwing us hard to the left. For a brief, terrifying moment, the warthog tipped to the left from the force of the rapid turn and had only the right-side wheels touching the ground.

We cut across several lanes in the highway, shooting over the median, and landing on the other side. The revenant that had been charging us tried to mimic the turn, but it was too clunky to pull it off. It struck the median and flipped end over end, crashing into several other Covenant vehicles. The other warthog just barely missed colliding with the rampaging wreck—Virgin had thrown the warthog into a drift just in the nick of time.

Celt gave a triumphant, profanity-laced cry as he blew up another ghost with the LAAG turret. He swiveled the turret back to face forward and gave a grunt of surprise; there _was_ nothing in front of us. We had made it through.

"_Woo_ yeah!" I pumped my fist into the air, giving a few rude gestures to the Covies as we left them in the dust. I think the whole ordeal had barely even lasted a minute, though it had felt more like an hour.

A few ghosts broke off from the convoy and started to pursue, but the combined fire of our two LAAG turrets dissuaded them. We hadn't directly caused all the damage back there; most of it had been caused by Covie s accidentally firing on or crashing into their friends—the chaos we had created had destroyed much more than our lead.

I wanted to take my helmet back off, but we were still moving as the warthog's top speeds, so that wouldn't have been such a good idea. Instead, I contented myself with relaxing and propping my feet back up onto the dashboard, just like before we had run into the convoy.

"I spy with my little eye," I chuckled, "something strong, powerful, deadly, and confused as shit as they get wasted by two fucking jeeps."

"Not big on the subtleties, there, are ye, Scar?" Celt mused.

"Not a damn bit."

Cajun gave a hearty laugh of his own. "To Mount Pylos or bust, boys."


	40. III Chapter 40: Mount Pylos

Chapter Forty: Mount Pylos

**December 3, 2541 (Military Calendar) \  
Irivet V, Canis Serpentis System**

Route-48 was a lot different than the last highway we had come off. Route-272 had been, for the most part, straight; hills being the only things that disrupted the flow. Route-48 went through the Erebus Mountains; as such, it was an arduous, winding road that usually rested halfway up the slopes of the mountains it was encompassing, cut into the rock.

Because of all the twists and curves, we couldn't gun it down this highway like we had done on the last one, much to Cajun's chagrin.

I was just glad that we hadn't gotten caught up in the Ainsdell meatgrinder. Things were getting pretty rough in the capital city; the Covies to the north had apparently made another thrust into UNSC-held Ainsdell, driving our forces almost all the way back to Firelso Square. We seemed to be holding out, though; surprised, but not beaten.

I have no idea what exactly happened to the Covie flanking column that we had fought our way through earlier in the afternoon. Our aerial fighters had probably destroyed it, because there weren't any reports coming in from Ainsdell of Covenant armor attacking from the south.

_We_ hadn't run into anymore trouble, either. I had spotted banshees a few times recently, but nothing more.

After getting past Ainsdell, we had turned down Route-48, just like Virgin had said. It had been relatively flat and straight at first, but as we got nearer and nearer to the Erebus Mountains, the highway started winding through the foothills and smaller peaks. Now, we were making our way through the largest of the mountains.

The Erebus Mountains stretched almost all the way across the start of the Thainem Peninsula, which extended southeast past the rest of the mainland's southern and eastern coasts. Apparently, the peninsula had once been a separate continent, then shifting tectonic plates had jammed it into the southeastern corner of _this_ landmass, creating the Erebus Mountains.

But I digress.

We were currently making our way around the breadth of Mount Indos. Mount Pylos was the next mountain ahead; we were nearly there.

"_Never really thought to ask this until now, but…how are we going to know where the ONI base is?_" Apache asked, raising another valid point. "_Captain Delucci never gave us instructions_."

Celt gave a low grunt from the back of our warthog, where he was sitting against the LAAG turret. "Trust ONI to give us straight answers…"

We had all been so focused on reaching Mount Pylos that none of us had really wondered what to do after we actually _got_ there. Would there be ONI operatives waiting to receive us? Would we be contacted by the scientists in the ONI facility?

I drummed my fingers impatiently on the side of the warthog, watching the scenery rush by as Cajun kept up our speed. If there hadn't been a huge battle raging less than a hundred kilometers away, it would have been easier to appreciate the beautiful valleys and forests that we were passing by.

There was no sun, anymore. The smog from Ainsdell had covered the area in a thick cloud cover, making it seem almost like some sort of apocalyptic twilight.

The highway wound around the rest of Mount Indos and spilled out into the valley between Indos and Pylos. The answer to Apache's question came when we were almost on the other side of the valley. We weren't contacted by anything, nor was there anyone to take us to the ONI facility, wherever it was. Instead, a NAV marker appeared on my HUD.

It was the kind of thing we used to set rally points, or what our handlers would use to give us the locations of mission objectives. We didn't use them very often, but they certainly came in handy when needed.

Grunts of surprise from Celt and Cajun told me that the others had gotten that same NAV marker as well.

"Who the hell sent us-" Cajun started to ask, but he was cut off by the Master Sergeant.

"_That must be our ONI friends talking,_" our squad leader declared. "_Follow that marker_."

The NAV beacon led us off the highway, as a matter of fact. The path took us off the highway and into the woods. As we forged deeper into the woods towards Mount Pylos, I could see that we actually _were _on a road of sorts. It wasn't paved, gravel, or even a dirt road, but it was a path through the trees. It was overgrown with tall grass and wild plants, so it would be impossible to spot from the highway unless you knew exactly where to turn off.

The distance meter under the NAV marker got lower and lower as we drove on. It took us fifteen or so minutes to get to the NAV marker's destination. We came to a stop in front of a sheer cliff face. It was made of granite, I think…but there wasn't anything special about it.

We sat in silence for about a minute, waiting for something to happen. Then there was a loud clunking noise.

"The hell?" Cajun traded a sidelong glance with me.

There was a mechanical whirring noise, almost as if a doorway was opening, but the cliff remained impassive. Finally, the noise stopped, and we were left still sitting in front of the cliff, gawking at it like ignorants.

Then a large portion of the rock face actually _flickered, _momentarily revealing the pixilated light which it was composed of.

"Hologram? Really?" Virgin muttered, tapping the accelerator of his warthog and edging towards the flickering section of the cliff face. "I was expecting better."

"I think it's a hologram interposed over actual rock," the Master Sergeant guessed. "The real cliff face was the door. When it opens, the hologram remains in place. I've seen this kind of stuff on other missions."

Sure, maybe the rock face in front of us was nothing but bent light, but I couldn't help but grip the edges of my seat and even hold my breath as we drove right through it. I mean, one moment the rock is rushing right at your face, then the next it's gone and you find yourself in a dimly-lit corridor. Kind of disconcerting.

Well, it was more like a hallway for vehicles; much, _much_ larger than your average corridor. Neon gas strip-lights lined the ceiling of the entrance road, which ran at least half a mile into the depths of Mount Pylos. Staring at the tunnel walls as we sped underground, I couldn't help but wonder how long it would have taken to build a place like this.

As if he were reading my mind, Cajun sort of answered my question. "Mountain must've already had natural caverns or magma chambers, an' ONI jus' came in an' filled 'em all with fancy rooms…can't imagine that they could've _dug_ this whole place out of the rock; that would've taken decades to get in this far…"

"Don't care," Celt yawned.

Cajun hesitated, then answered, "Y'know what? I ain't even gonna waste my breath on a witty response to that. It ain't worth it."

The entrance tunnel ended in a large, bulb-shaped chamber. There were a few other warthogs and a falcon in here as well, but they looked as if they hadn't been used in years.

We powered down our warthogs. As I climbed out, there was another clunking noise, and a set of heavy titanium blast doors came out of the walls, sealing this room off from the entrance tunnel. It must have been opened in anticipation of our arrival.

There was only one other door in the room, and it was tightly sealed. I could see no way in. I climbed out of the warthog and grabbed my sniper rifle, clipping it to the magnetic weapons strip in the back of my armor.

"Uh…we're here!" Pyro exclaimed, talking to no one in particular, waving his arms at the ceiling. "Mind opening them doors for us?"

The red lights bordering the sealed door clicked and turned green. Vapor hissed as the door unsealed and swung open. "_Welcome to the Forge,_" a middle-aged female voice greeted us through an unseen speaker system. "_Please step through the entrance and follow the green lights. Do not enter any other areas of this facility; they are restricted, and the Office of Naval Intelligence will be forced to bury you alive if you see anything you are not supposed to see._"

"Charming place," Apache remarked dryly.

"Alright, let's play Loudspeaker Lady's game," the Master Sergeant grunted. "Don't touch anything that isn't yours, children."

"Yes, mother," Virgin muttered.

We stepped through the entrance, finding ourselves in a long, wide corridor. It ended in a three-way Y junction, but the green lights along the ceiling indicated that we had to follow the right-hand passage.

We passed many hallways and closed doors along the way. I suppressed my curiosity to know what was behind those walls. It then occurred to me that there probably wasn't anything here anymore; doubtless the ONI personnel—the vast majority of whom appear to have already evacuated—would have fried everything in here when they learned of the Covie invasion.

Except, of course, our package.

We were led down several more corridors and down through several sublevels until finally we found ourselves in front of a large set of blast doors labeled _L-03A1;_ 'L' standing for 'laboratory,' I think.

Loudspeaker Lady must have been following our progress, because the blast doors hissed open when we reached them, revealing a large chamber the size of a small hangar bay. Deactivated robots and droids—controlled by AIs; they weren't androids—littered the workspace, which was filled with workbenches, computer terminals, testing stations, and assembly conveyor belts. This place didn't seem to be where the high-level projects were kept or finished; I think this was where the materials were actually put together. I could imagine it—workers bustling around the assembly lines and stations, droids whirring from place to place, AI avatars hanging in the air, making sure everything was running smoothly…

Well, it didn't matter, anymore; nothing was being built right now.

We made our way through the assembly bay, careful not to step on anything. Well, _most_ of us were careful. Cajun kicked aside one of the droid husks that lay across his path, holding no regard for the equipment.

"_Please refrain from kicking the machinery, Private Buford,_" Loudspeaker Lady's voice issued through the speakers in the bay, "_It is more expensive than you._"

"The fuck?" Cajun muttered under his breath. "All-knowing Loudspeaker Lady knows my fuckin' _name,_ now? What the hell _else_ does she know?" The Louisianan hesitated for a beat, then quickly added, "On second thought, don't answer that…"

"Good idea," Apache chuckled.

I decided not to say anything. Best not to have Loudspeaker Lady digging up any of my dirty secrets…although I really didn't _have_ any dirty secrets, here. The only really personal part of my life was Sophie Devereux, and my squadmates all knew who she was. But still…

We entered a lift and took it up to the observation deck, where officials could watch the goings-on. The command center was filled with consoles, monitors, and screens, and a million other things that I didn't understand.

Standing inside this room were five men and women; all of them in their thirties to fifties. The one who was clearly in charge—a grayish black-haired woman in her late forties or early fifties—stepped forward.

She was Loudspeaker Lady; I instantly recognized her voice when she started to speak. "You are Captain Delucci's troopers, correct?" she asked us.

"Correct," the Master Sergeant replied. "Identify yourself, please."

The woman gave a slightly irate sigh—she had clearly been through this many times. "Halsey, Doctor Catherine E. Civilian Consultant 409871. Now, this is the part when you give me 'Diamond' as the security interrogative, and in return I give you 'Everest' as the counterresponse. Is this satisfactory for you, Master Sergeant, or would you rather waste even more of my time with your questions?"

"Apologies, ma'am," my squad leader said stiffly. "Security protocols have to be obeyed. We are here with orders to secure and recover a package."

"And what of us?" one of the other scientists asked. "We are getting out, too…right?"

Doctor Halsey gave a cold smile. "No doubt they designated our recovery as secondary to that of the package. The sensible thing to do."

As Halsey, the other scientists, and the Master Sergeant conversed in hushed tones, I did my best to stare straight at a spot on the wall, tapping my foot impatiently.

We were interrupted suddenly by the lights flickering twice and the entire room vibrating gently for a few seconds.

"Pardon my French, but what the hell was that?" Virgin exclaimed.

"Sounded like an antimatter charge…" Cajun, who was well-versed in demolitions, murmured.

One of the scientists crossed to a console station and input a command. Several of the monitors switched to an outside view of the Forge. What I saw made my stomach drop a few inches. No fewer than five phantoms were hovering over the cliff face that was the entrance to the Forge. A large group of Covenant armor was also encamped in front of the entrance, flanked by a good-sized troop of Elites and several Hunter pairs.

Immediately, most of my squad started swearing. It was the Covenant armored column that we had blasted our way through on Route-272. No wonder Ainsdell hadn't reported any enemy activity from our direction; the bastards had followed _us_.

"How in the blue fuck did they follow us here?" Cajun wondered aloud. "We left their asses in the dust!"

I swore again, remembering all the times I had spotted a banshee in the skies during our drive down Route-48. "After we bulled through them, they must have had a flier on oversight trailing us…we all spotted those banshees along the way, didn't we?"

"This whole discussion is irrelevant," Doctor Halsey interrupted. "It does not matter how the Covenant found us; all that matters is that they are here. The package must be removed immediately."

The room shook again. "Will the Covies be able to bust through them blast doors out front?" Pyro asked hesitantly.

"They have overcome far more substantial obstacles than that," Halsey mused. "I would estimate they'll breach the outer doors in no more than half an hour's time."

"Then we have fifty minutes," the Master Sergeant declared, "until the Covies breach the Forge. We have to move fast."

Halsey raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "You have formulated a plan already?"

"I was making an escape plan the moment we got into the vehicle depot," the Master Sergeant replied. "Habit."

"And what, may I ask, does this plan entail?" one of the other scientists asked. "If you haven't noticed, we are not soldiers."

"You _weren't_ soldiers. You are now," the Master Sergeant chuckled. "Now, to the first order of business…we're going to need explosives. Lots of them."


	41. III Chapter 41: No Stunt Doubles

Chapter Forty-One: No Stunt Doubles

**December 3, 2541 (Military Calendar) \  
Irivet V, Canis Serpentis System**

"_Shite,_" Celt hissed as the facility shook again, evidence of the Covies' attempts to breach the Forge's entrance. "Don't suppose the devils're gonna give it a rest, are they?"

"Probably not," I shrugged. I wasn't all that stressed out, or even nervous, despite the sizable Covie presence on our doorstep. I had fallen into the comfort of a dichotomy; either we escaped, or we died. Flipping out wouldn't help us escape any easier, so I kept calm. Being a sniper also helped—we were, by nature, patient individuals. We had to be; in several of my previous ops that involved assassination, I would sometimes wait for several days in a position, waiting for the perfect shot. Impatient people can't do that.

Celt and I were making our way down one of the corridors, pushing a dolly packed with bricks of C12 explosives. The Master Sergeant had loaded it up and ordered Celt and me to take it down to the vehicle depot. This was the fourth or fifth trip we had taken, and it was supposed to be the last. All the others had been ferrying explosives as well; we had a pretty sizable arsenal at our disposal at the entrance to the Forge.

"Sarge tell you what the hell we're using all these fireworks for?" I asked my squadmate.

Celt shrugged. "No clue. Cajun knows, but I never got the chance to ask,"

We turned down another Y junction and made our way towards the door that led to the vehicle depot. When we lugged the dolly into the depot, we were greeted by a triumphant cry from Virgin, who was crouched over the console built into the sealed pod containing our package.

"I figured it out! I figured it out!" he was crowing.

"Keep it in your pants, there, buddy," I advised him.

"If ye don't tell us _what_ ye found, it don't really make bloody lick o' difference, does it?" Celt grunted.

"The scientists were pretty tight-lipped about what the package was, and I really can't help my curiosity, so I cracked the encryption codes in this thing," Virgin rapped the console with his knuckle. I could almost feel the smug grin emanating through his faceplate. "Figured out what our package is. This mysterious thing that is supposed to change the course of the war."

"…and?" I asked as I pushed the dolly over to Cajun, who was busy loading up bricks of C12 into one of the warthogs.

"Two words," Virgin stated, spreading his palms next to his face for dramatic effect. "Energy shields."

I blinked uncomprehendingly. "There's energy shields in that pod?"

"No, you dumbass," Virgin sidled over and started to help Celt and me with unloading the dolly. "The _capabilities_ for energy shielding are in that pod; it's getting shipped to a facility in United Korea back on Earth… Don't you get it? Imagine Helljumpers like us with energy shields like the Elites. We would be fucking unstoppable!"

"Hot damn…" Cajun murmured, immersed in his own fantasy of shielded ODSTs dropping into battle. I even had to admit, the prospect was pretty mouthwatering. If UNSC troops were given energy shields in combat, our casualties would decrease dramatically…

Then another thought occurred to me that killed the buzz. "You guys are forgetting one thing."

"And what's that?" Celt regarded me with a small measure of irritation.

"We aren't first in line for new gizmos," I reminded my squadmates. "It'll go to the Spartans before us…if it gets to us at all."

Celt swore. "Too feckin' right, mate… Bloody cybernetic freaks get _everything,_ and we're always left with the scraps."

I decided not to point out that we still got new equipment faster than the regulars. During my time in the 9th Force Recon, I had grown accustomed to having not quite up-to-date equipment. Hell, the BR I had used was from before Harvest, for Chrissake.

"Even if we _were_ first in line, they probably wouldn't get this crap working for another fifteen or twenty years," I shrugged. "We'll probably be dead by then."

"Doubt it," Virgin shook his head. "We have more dangerous missions than regulars, sure; but we're out in the field a lot less; we don't fight in the trenches like they do. Black ops squads have very high survival rates."

"Pardon me if I don't trust statistics."

"Well, before you go and die, wouldja mind helpin' me out with the detonators?" Cajun grunted.

Pyro and Apache came into the vehicle depot a minute later with two more dollies filled with C12 and LOTUS mines. "This is the last of the fireworks," Apache said in between breaths. They must have been running those carts down at top speed.

While the others started unloading the new batch of explosives, I helped Cajun as he started to wire detonator cord throughout one of the warthogs, which was filled to the brim with ordinance.

There was another muffled _boom,_ causing the depot to rattle and shake. It had been over half an hour since we had started gathering explosives from the testing chambers. The Forge seemed to produce a fair amount of the ordinance that got sent out into the field—there was a good stock pile here, just waiting to be abused. But the point was that it had been over half an hour; we were running out of time. The Forge's entrance was already running on borrowed time.

"Alright, people, time is extremely short!" the Master Sergeant exclaimed as he strode into the room, flanked by Halsey and the other four scientists. "Cajun; how are our little diversions coming along?"

"Got one ready to roll, two more need detonator cord, and the fourth is getting' filled up!" Cajun hollered back.

"Not good enough; the Covies'll be cracking through the front door before we finish number five!" the Master Sergeant gestured at the fifth warthog in the vehicle depot, which wasn't loaded with explosives yet.

"Do I look like a fuckin' octopus to you? I only got two arms; get the brains to do it!" Cajun snapped.

The Master Sergeant muttered something under his breath, then started enlisting the aid of the scientists—minus Doctor Halsey, who was inputting commands into the package's console—in loading the C12 and LOTUS mines into the fifth warthog.

"Uh, Cajun? What the hell do I do with this?" I asked my squadmate, holding up the end of one of the det-cords. Cajun grabbed it from me and gently inserted it into the detonator itself.

"Detonator receiver gets the signal and sends a charge through the cord," the Louisianan explained. "Makes everything it touches go _boom,_ and the chain reaction blows everything else. Beautiful pieces of ordinance, these babies…"

"So, you gonna tell me why the hell we're turning these warthogs into oversized grenades?" I finally asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"You ever research ancient naval warfare, Scar?" Cajun asked me. I shook my head _no,_ so Cajun went on to explain. "Back when they still used wooden vessels to sail the oceans, some navies would go 'n load ships full of explosives and gunpowder, set 'em alight, an' run 'em into the enemy navy. Called those suckers 'fireships'."

"You're turning these warthogs into fireships?"

"'cept they ain't ships, obviously. Firehogs…" Cajun chuckled quietly to himself, amused at the moniker. We moved on to the second warthog and started wiring it up. "But the same principle applies. Them Covies're gonna be waitin' for us outside with wraiths an' all kinds o' shit. So, we stack these puppies up with fireworks, send 'em out ahead of us into the Covie armor."

"Is this enough to destroy them?"

"Oh, shit no," Cajun shook his head, attaching part of the det-cord to the receiver. "It might take out one or two of their machines if we're lucky. But no; this here's just s'posed to be somethin' ta keep 'em reelin' while _we_ make our getaway on that beauty over there," he nodded towards the falcon fighter.

There was another tremor. This one sounded louder and lasted longer than the previous ones. Cajun cast an anxious glance up towards the ceiling. "I've a bad feeling that the entrance just went ka-blooey."

Doctor Halsey confirmed this, saying, "The Forge's main entrance has fallen. The Covenant will begin moving into the tunnel; whatever you troopers are going to do, I would suggest we do it now. I, for one, have been around long enough to know that the Covenant do not take prisoners."

"You and me both, ma'am," the Master Sergeant agreed. "Cajun; I don't need to tell you again. We are _out_ of time."

"I know, I know, goddamnit," Cajun growled as he started to wire up the third warthog. "This ain't like playin' a game o' fuckin' pattycake; I can't rush this!"

"Here, toss me one of the det-cords," I offered. After watching Cajun rig up a warthog twice, I felt I had the gist of it. "I'll get the next one."

Cajun considered for a moment, then handed me a loop of det-cord. "Don't fuck it up, y'hear?" was all he said.

"Don't worry; if I fuck it up, you'll be the first to know," I promised him. While Cajun finished up on warthog number three, I started wiring up number four. As Cajun had done, I stuck the detonator receiver in the glove compartment, attaching one end of the det cord to it. I then looped it out across the vehicle, attaching it to the numerous LOTUS mines sitting in the front seats and the rear turret platform. I then ran it under the hood, sticking it through several more blocks of C12 before, satisfied, I attached the other end of the cord into the receiver as well.

By the time I finished, Cajun was already starting up on warthog number five, the last one.

"Virgin, fire up that flier!" the Master Sergeant ordered our tech specialist.

Virgin was also our de facto pilot. De facto because all of us were capable of operating almost any UNSC vehicle—tanks were pushing it, for me, but anything else was fair game—but Virgin was the best one of us in a cockpit. Whenever we needed someone to fly, Virgin was the man to do it.

The young tech specialist dropped what he was doing and climbed into the falcon's cockpit, pulling the bubble window down over him and sealing it. The aircraft's engines hummed to life, telltale flickers of blue glowing from the outtakes. The twin turboprops started to rotate lazily, gradually gaining speed until they were going too fast to see the individual blades.

The falcon rose into the air, hovering about two or so feet above the floor.

The Master Sergeant climbed into one of the warthogs, powering the jeep up. "Scar, Cajun, Celt, Pyro; take the others. Get 'em moving as fast as they can go, then hit the cruise control. Virgin will pick us up. Doctor Halsey, get on board the falcon."

"Sir," Apache stepped forward as Halsey and the scientists piled into the aircraft. "I'll take a warthog, too, sir."

"No, Apache; I'm not risking our only medic," the Master Sergeant replied. "Board the falcon and take one of the door guns."

Apache nodded wordlessly and followed the scientists.

I climbed into the warthog I had rigged up and punched the ignition, throwing the jeep into gear. Pyro, Celt, and Cajun all did likewise until all five warthogs were lined up and waiting at the sealed blast doors.

"Everyone ready?" the Master Sergeant hollered, hopping out of his warthog and heading over to the manual door controls. Normally they would be locked out, but Halsey must have rerouted control to here from the command room before coming down.

"_Ready!_" we all shouted.

"Virgin, I want you on top of us tighter than a bar dancer on Emerald Cove!" our squad leader shouted. "The moment we're on cruise control, we need to get the hell _off_ these things! Keep level!"

"_Got it, Sarge,_" Virgin nodded, flashing us a thumbs-up from the cockpit.

The Master Sergeant punched the door controls. There was another mechanical hiss, and the blast doors slid into the walls and floor, revealing the entrance tunnel. Sure enough, at the far end—half a mile distant—we could see daylight. The Covies hadn't entered the tunnel yet, but they were almost finished clearing the debris.

"_Go! Go, go, go!_" the Master Sergeant howled, leaping back into the driver seat and gunning it.

I let out a raw-throated, "_WOO!_" as I stomped on the accelerator. The tires squealed for a second, then my warthog peeled off down the entrance tunnel, actually leaving smoke where the wheels had gained traction.

The falcon caught up to us. Virgin was flying the craft just above and behind us, waiting for us to max out. I kept a close eye on the speedometer. Once it had gone as far as it could go, I punched the cruise control. The warthog gave a slight lurch, then settled into its maximum speed. I took my foot off the accelerator and edged the wheel to the right a tad, lining the jeep up as best as I could.

"_Virgin! Get up here!_" Pyro shouted.

"_It's easier said than done; I'm trying!_" Virgin snapped.

I glanced over, watching Pyro and Celt grab hold of one side of the falcon and haul themselves into the troop bay. The scientists huddled to one end, making as much room as possible.

The troop bay of a falcon could comfortably hold half a dozen marines. Squeezing nearly twice that number into that same space was going to be pushing our luck, but we really had no other option. If we had tried to leave with a warthog, we would have gotten fried. This falcon was our only shot.

Virgin edged the falcon over in my direction a tad bit, drifting towards my warthog. The Master Sergeant boarded the aircraft first, then the falcon hovered over his warthog and finally reached mine. I stood up on the driver's seat, balancing shakily. I reached forward.

For a brief, terrifying moment, I actually lost my balance. Fortunately, I grabbed onto one of the falcon's door guns at the same time, so I just let myself fall forward. Virgin brought the falcon over, lifting me up and out of the warthog. I pulled myself in the rest of the way, lying down flat on the floor.

Pyro grasped my upper arm and hauled me up. "Nice save there, Scar," the black ODST chuckled.

Virgin brought us over to Cajun's warthog. We were getting pretty close to the end of the tunnel, so Virgin hurried it up as fast as he could. I grabbed onto the door turret with one hand and, leaning out the side of the falcon, grabbed hold of Cajun with my other. He grabbed onto my arm with both hands and was lifted out of the warthog.

Virgin immediately eased up on the speed and let the warthogs shoot out ahead. I started to pull Cajun up, but he waved me off. "Wait a sec!" he shouted, letting go with one of his hands and fumbling around his waist. Finally, he pulled out Julie, his prized detonator, and sent out the detonation signal.

The warthogs shot out of the entrance tunnel well ahead of the falcon. By the time Cajun sent the detonation signal, they were crashing into the phalanx of wraiths and revenants the Covies had waiting for us.

The five warthogs exploded in a blinding, fiery haze. All those mines and C12 bricks blowing at the same time… A wraith went up in flames, along with two revenants. A few other vehicles were damaged by the blasts, and I don't know how many Elites and grunts were killed.

The objective wasn't to destroy the armor, though. The object was simply to knock them back on their heels, which we certainly did. A few seconds after the explosions, our falcon shot out of Mount Pylos.

Surprised as they were, a couple of the Covie machines and the remaining Elites still managed to open fire on us as we gained altitude. Had the 'firehogs' not gone up in their faces, we would have had an entire armored contingent trying to shoot us down. Having only a handful of them giving it a shot made it possible for us to slip away without getting knocked out of the sky.

We didn't get through unscathed, though. I was pulling Cajun up into the troop bay when a hail of plasma charges thucked into the side of the falcon less than a foot to the left of my head. One of them must have hit Cajun, because he jerked suddenly and started howling obscenities at the top of his lungs.

I pulled him up the rest of the way and instantly winced; the Louisianan had a needle rifle spike lodged in his back, and it was starting to bleed.

"Jesus _fuckin'_ Christ, hurts like a goddamn-" Cajun kept up his tirade. He had a reputation for having a particularly foul mouth when provoked, and he definitely didn't disappoint.

"_Apache!_" I called the medic over. "Work your magic!"

Apache, upon seeing the wound, muttered something in a language I didn't recognize. "Hold him down," the Native American ordered, pulling a can of biofoam from his satchel.

I held down one of Cajun's shoulders while Pyro knelt down on the other side and kept him immobile. Apache grasped the spike and gently eased it out of Cajun's back. The moment it was free, the medic instantly filled the wound with biofoam. Cajun took a deep breath as the healing polymer agent expanded throughout his abdominal cavity.

"_Ohh_…" he moaned in relief. "Oh, that's mighty fine, Apache…much obliged…"

"That's what I'm here for," Apache replied, helping Cajun sit up. "Biofoam won't hold you forever, though. Don't agitate it."

Pyro returned to his seat, but I stayed on the floor next to Cajun; there wasn't anymore room on the seats.

We weren't exactly gaining anymore altitude, but we were really moving forward at a good pace, heading east towards Einsburgh, where Captain Delucci was sending a pelican to collect us.

"Oh, that's nothing, Cajun," I clapped my friend on the shoulder. "Back when I was Force Recon, I took one of those suckers to the stomach during the Siege of Cedar Rapids. Skewered me cleaner than a shish-kebab. Closest I ever came to dying since the fucking Harvest Campaign."

Cajun gave a low grunt. "A mountain o' shit's worse than a pile o' shit, sure; but shit's still shit. Mine still fucking hurts."

"Can't argue with you there."

"Goddamn right, you can't…"

"We'll get you fixed up by the naval surgeons on the _Kronos,_" the Master Sergeant said. "They'll have you good as new by the time we get to our next mission."

I cocked an eyebrow, regarding my squad leader. "We're not staying on Irivet, Sarge?"

"Nope," the Master Sergeant shook his head. "Our armor arrived in Hellena late this morning. Our boys are smashing through the Covie lines as we speak. And besides; this is not our fight. It's the regulars' fight. Our job is to bark up whatever tree ONI black ops tells us to."

I shrugged. "I guess some part of me never left Force Recon. My old unit; we'd be slogging through this whole thing."

"You and me both," the Master Sergeant chuckled.

"You were Force Recon?"

"Once upon a time."

I lay down on my back, lacing my fingers behind my head. It was kind of uncomfortable with my sniper rifle on my back, but I made do. Thinking of my rifle, I gave a sudden chuckle when I realized something unusual.

"The fuck is so funny, Scar?" Pyro asked.

"Just realized that I only fired a single shot during this whole damn mission," I mused. It was true; I had fired a single round to take down that one Hunter outside of Hellena. After that, I had spent the rest of the mission holding onto the side of a warthog for dear life as Cajun rocketed down the highways. "I think I've been had."

"Next one should be better," the Master Sergeant surmised.

"Long as it ain't no goddamn rescue mission," Cajun growled, fully conscious of the fact that the scientists who we had rescued were right next to us.

Doctor Halsey said something, to which several of my squadmates had a reply, but I had started to tune out the conversation, closing my eyes and surrendering myself to the gentle rhythm of the falcon's turboprop engines as we forged east towards Einsburgh.

Another successful mission. Time to go back to the _Kronos's Scythe,_ take a nice, long cryo-nap, wake up, and do it all over again. When I really thought about it, the ten years—_ten years_…felt weird every time I said it—I had spent in the 9th Force Recon had seemed like an eternity, but the four years I had spent as a Helljumper had whizzed on by.

Ach…whatever. There was time for more deep thoughts in the future. For now…_sleep_.


	42. III Chapter 42: Separation Anxiety

Chapter Forty-Two: Separation Anxiety

**February 16, 2542 (Military Calendar, approximated) \ (Two Months Later)  
Unknown Location, Slipspace**

The UNSC _Kronos's Scythe_ was pretty much my second home. Well, it was closer to being my _only_ home than anything else. During missions, I was constantly moving from place to place with my squad. But this cruiser was the one place my squad kept on coming back to.

I suppose, sooner or later, the Navy would get it back from ONI…but until then, might as well enjoy have a place to call home. Unlike most of my other squadmates, my old home—Harvest—had been burned to a cinder by the Covies. The only other one of my squadmates who was homeless was Celt, who had actually been from Verus III, one of the places where I had fought as a Force Recon sergeant.

Technically, I was still a staff sergeant in the Marine Corps, but personal rank didn't mean quite as much here as it had in the rank and file. Here, rank was simple; one man—in this case, our Master Sergeant—was the squad leader, and everyone else was his bitch. After serving through Verus III and New Harmony as a squad leader myself, I had absolutely no problem with that.

Right now, I found myself in my usual mess hall on the _Kronos,_ getting my serving of breakfast. I had been out of the freezer for two days, now, and I _still_ felt hungry.

"_Salamis II_."

I looked up from my usual bacon and eggs and into two large gray eyes. "You have Tourette's or something?" I asked the owner of the gray eyes.

"No, dumb-shit," Cajun set down his tray opposite me and started eating. "It's our destination. Where our next mission's gonna be takin' place. Salamis II."

"_Salamis II_…" I echoed, recalling Captain Delucci mentioning it at the briefing for our last mission back at Irivet. "There's still fighting going on there?"

"Well, obviously," Cajun rolled his eyes as he swallowed a forkful of eggs. "Since when does ONI send us into places that ain't complete and total war zones, huh?"

"Well, yeah, I _know_ that, you inbred pile of horseshit; what I _meant_ was that there's been fighting there for over three months, now. That's a pretty long time, as battles go," I reasoned.

"Harvest took five years," my squad's medic reminded me as he sat at the table. I glanced over as Apache slid in next to Cajun. "I know you fought in that one, too."

"Get outta here, Apache, you fought at Harvest?" I asked. "Which front were you on?"

"I was on the Vigrond front with the 132nd, fighting across the Bifrost," Apache replied. "You?"

I shook my head. "I was down on the southern front with the 181st. We might've met up in the ruins of Utgard, but other than that…"

"No, I never went into Utgard, thank the earth," Apache murmured, picking up his fork and starting to dig in.

"You know what our next gig is gonna be? I asked Cajun. He had proven to be a well of information so far; why not take it as far as it could go?

No luck. Cajun shrugged. "Dunno," he said. "I heard the location; that's it."

After finishing breakfast, I took a stroll to the gym and tried my luck with the weights there. I exercised a lot—you had to, or you got soft—but I had never gotten those huge guns and heavy build that made up your stereotypical ODST. No matter how hard I trained, I was still always on the wiry side.

Not that I cared about outward appearance all that much, anymore. I already had Sophie Devereux; no need to keep trying to look good. Even so…my beard—which was red, like the rest of my hair—would need a trim sometime soon, otherwise I'd start looking like an oversized leprechaun, minus the four-leaf clover and the large nose.

I ran into Pyro in the gym. Now _he_ was the real deal. Those muscles of his would make even Elites shit their armor if they saw them. We spotted for each other a few times, then we both threw in the towel, took showers, and met up with Cajun, Celt, and Virgin at a firing range.

It was looking like today was going to be another increment of monotonous routine aboard the cruiser…but, sadly, this was not to be. First, I heard and felt that familiar rushing noise and sensation of a ship entering or exiting slipspace. This was an exit, into whatever system that colony Cajun had mentioned was in. We were interrupted at the firing range by the Master Sergeant, who ordered us to report to our briefing room in one hour.

And thus, the cycle began anew. Within sixty minutes, I found myself sitting in a chair at the round table in Briefing Room 30-D with my squadmates, waiting for the briefing to begin.

When Captain Delucci strode into the room, the doors sealed and the lights faded down. "Gentlemen, I want to congratulate all of you on a job well done at Irivet V. The package you secured made it safely back to Earth two days ago."

None of us mentioned the fact that we already knew what the package was; Delucci was the wrong person to say that to.

"Thank you, sir," the Master Sergeant nodded.

"Now, keeping with the spirit of things, I want to introduce you all to a little friend of mine," the Captain snapped his fingers, and a hologram of a planet flickered into existence. "Its name is Salamis II. Tropical climate savannah-like terrain, population of ninety million, predominately Afrikaner. There's been fighting on this colony for several months, now. This colony is obviously a good deal larger and more important than Irivet V, so expect some civilian presence."

"What's the situation with the battle?" the Master Sergeant asked.

"It's gone to shit," the Captain replied, surprising us with his casual use of profanity, which was something we saw very little of out of him. "Our navy's holding on by a thread. Covie ground forces have overwhelmed our own on all fronts. Unlike Irivet, these Covies actually came to fight…and they've certainly been doing plenty of it. Our ground forces are being evacuated as we speak."

So our mission was definitely going to be something other than conventional warfare. As long as it wasn't another rescue mission…

"What's our objective?" the Master Sergeant got right to the point.

"We've lost contact with one of our…contacts," the Captain frowned at the word repetition momentarily, but then paid it no more heed.

"Don't say it," Cajun growled. "'_You have to go in and get him._' Don't say it."

Captain Delucci gave a faint half-grin. "You have to go in and get him. This is a recovery mission."

Cajun didn't swear, which was remarkable. Instead, he simply muttered something under his breath and rested his head on the table, closing his eyes and pretending to go to sleep. "Jus' do the rest o' the briefing without me…" he muttered, adding another few choice comments about rescue missions under his breath.

I would never want to cross Captain Delucci, but at the same time he _was_ a little more laid-back than many of his associates. He tolerated many of our eccentricities, including Cajun's little meltdown.

"Now, I think Irivet was too easy for you boys," the Captain mused. "We already knew that we were going to send those Covies to Hades. Here on Salamis; different story. This time is just like Verus III; our military is in one long retreat. The colony is already doomed; all we can do is get as many people out before the hammer falls. Now, onto your mission objective. This is our contact and your package. Take a good look, please. Yes, Cajun, I mean _you_."

Cajun grumbled in protest, but he complied, lifting his head up so that he could see the hologram of Salamis II flicker and morph into the head and shoulders of a man.

I looked at the visage of our target; mid-forties, or so, blond hair that was starting to get streaked through with gray, brown eyes, and the beginnings of a goatee on his chin. Nothing too special about him.

"This is Codename: Orion, one of our top contacts in the Insurrection. Orion is not his real name, obviously. That information is classified. Though the Insurrection is all but dead, now, the intel this man used to provide to us during and before OPERATION: TREBUCHET saved tens of thousands of lives. You remember the _National Holiday_ incident?"

I winced, as did my squadmates. The _National Holiday_ had been a luxury liner bound for Arcadia that had been bombed by Insurrectionists. It broke apart and burned up in Reach's atmosphere. Over fifteen hundred civilian passengers dead, along with the crew. It had been one of the largest death tolls caused by the Insurrection since the Mamore nuclear incident in 2511.

"It is thanks to Orion that what happened to the _National Holiday_ happened only once…and not a dozen times," Captain Delucci admonished. "ONI takes care of its own. We are sending you into Rhodesia, one of the provinces situated towards the center of the South Transvaal landmass, which is where codename Orion resides. We have received reports of our forces pulling back from that area. Your orders are to extract Orion and his family from our safehouse in Rustenpoort, the capital of Rhodesia, and safely escort them to an evac zone."

"Family?" Pyro echoed. "What's this about his family?"

Captain Delucci sat down at his end of the table, snapping his fingers again. The image of codename Orion's face and head dissolved into oblivion. The lights returned to their previous, dim state. "He has a wife and three children—two boys and a girl. They are to be extracted as well."

"Sir, with all due respect, extracting lone civilians is difficult enough," the Master Sergeant said. "Having to worry about an entire family…sir, we're not babysitters. We have our own asses to look after, too."

Captain Delucci's eyebrows went up a fraction, but his expression remained static. "You will do as you are ordered, Master Sergeant," the Captain declared. "I am aware of the difficulties presented by escorting such a number of civilians…but you will work through them. You wouldn't be Helljumpers if you couldn't. These orders came down directly from Rear Admiral Rich. There will be no questioning them."

"Yes, sir," the Master Sergeant gave a crisp nod.

Captain Delucci then showed us a brief image of Orion and his family, so that we could familiarize ourselves with the faces. I didn't really look; I had already seen the primary target. My main worry was going to be Covies. I only fired my sniper rifle once back on Irivet V…but I had a feeling that I would be using it much more this time around.

With nothing else to brief us on, the Captain saluted and dismissed us. "We'll be reaching orbit over Salamis in less than an hour. Get suited up and armed to the teeth; you have to be ready to drop the moment we're in range. The Covenant Navy is out in force in this star system."

We got up and filed out of the briefing room. Along with my squad, I reported directly to the armory. I slid into my ODST armor suit in five quick minutes, then snagged my sniper rifle and magnum sidearm. The rest of my squad picked up their weapons and equipment as well. The whole rush had taken less than ten minutes, which had to be a new record.

"Those damn civvies better not get us killed…" Celt murmured as we walked out of the lift and started heading towards the drop bay. "If I be slated to kick the bucket, it's not gonna be because of a bunch o' bloody _civvies_."

Cajun growled in agreement. "The higher-ups've taken their dumps on us before, but this…_this_ takes the damn cake. Playin' babysitter for a whole fuckin' family…"

"Alright," the Master Sergeant sighed. "We have to escort a whole family to safety. It blows. I get it. Now stop grousing about it every five minutes. We've got a job to do, so by God we'll do it. Conversation closed."

"What the hell's an Afrikaner, anyway?" Cajun asked finally, having run out of things to complain about for the time being.

"White South Africans," Pyro replied. "Descendants of the old Dutch, I think."

We filed into the drop bay. I got that sense of déjà-vu I always got right before a drop—the routine we had just gone through was exactly the same as every drop we had executed in the past. We crossed the drop bay and headed into Hell's Waiting Room—the long, corridor-like space with the drop pods lined up on both sides.

Since our last drop into Irivet, Delucci must have commissioned another batch of pods for our use. We would get resupplied before too long, and that would include replacement pods for the ones we dropped in.

As usual, Delucci himself was waiting for us. We went through the pre-drop ritual, finishing with a resounding, "_Feet-first into Hell!_" and climbing into our pods. We sealed them from the inside. Captain Delucci paced down the length of Hell's Waiting Room and knocked on each of our pods, making sure we were ready to go.

After that came the lurch, the gradual descent through the _Kronos's_ underbelly, the release of the docking clamps, then the smooth glide of the HEV pod through the vacuum of space, heading towards the gravity well of Salamis II.

Going down feetfirst never got old. I've mentioned how monotonous the whole pre-jump routine was, but the jump itself was always terrifying as ever. Helljumpers are a strange breed, I have to say. Contrary to popular belief, we don't _enjoy_ falling into the atmosphere. It was exhilarating—a rush like no other—but I didn't _enjoy_ it. Every second that we fell towards a planet's surface, we did so in constant fear of all the things that could go wrong.

I forced myself not to think about what would happen if the heat shield was damaged, or if the drag chute was iced over and wouldn't deploy, or if the retro thrusters shorted out, or if-

I shook my head, gripping the edges of the crash seat. There I had almost gone on and did the very thing I forced myself not to do. This damn inner monologue in my head...

But anyway, as I said, we didn't enjoy jumping in feet-first, yet we sort of longed for that rush that we experienced while doing it...it was complicated. But to find any small measure of a positive experience while plummeting through an atmosphere at terminal velocity...well, you have to be part insane. I'd say our squad fit the bill quite nicely. Not all of us were quite as crazy as Cajun or Celt, but we were all a little insane in our own right. Except maybe Apache; he was just ice-cold under pressure.

Tongues of flame started to lick at the edges of my windows, through which I was beginning to see a red glow around my drop pod. That was the friction of reentry talking. Down below, Salamis II gradually drifted closer and closer, until I wasn't able to very well see the curvature of the world anymore. By then, the darkness of space was lightening into a dark blue.

There were large oceans on Salamis, but we were dropping right towards the middle of the largest landmass, which was presumably South Transvaal, as Captain Delucci had indicated during the briefing. North Transvaal appeared to be another, smaller landmass connected to South Transvaal by a narrow isthmus. It stretched far to the north and, for the most part, seemed to be covered in snow and ice. Not many people lived there.

All had been going well; the Master Sergeant was checking with everyone over the COM. We were roaring down towards the mesosphere when all hell broke loose.

Even when I looked back on the whole thing, I still have no idea what exactly caused the explosion. It may have been a stray plasma shot from a Covenant frigate, it could have been a seraph or a longsword fighter getting blown up next to us, or an anti-aircraft round—it could have even been a dead husk of a fighter that one of us clipped, setting off an engine core. Either way, something went _BOOM,_ and the next thing I knew, I was hurtling off course. I could spot one or two other pods near mine, but the others were nowhere to be seen. The SQUADCOM had dissolved to static. Red warning lights were going off in my face.

_Oh shit…shit, shit, shit, _shit!

I forced myself to calm down. Working faster than light, I activated the hydrazine mini-thrusters built into the sides of the HEV pod. They were extreme last-resort tools, and were not always successful, but they were my only shot. I had the pod's computer realign my drop pod's trajectory so that I wouldn't burn up or land on my side or head, and then it fired the hydrazine rockets on each side just enough to course-correct.

The warning lights flicked off. I don't think my trajectory was perfect, but it wasn't going to kill me…I think. _God,_ how had this gotten so fucked up?

I tried raising my squadmates over the COM again, but I got nothing but static. My pod dropped into the cloudline. The altimeter hit three thousand feet. I punched the chute release, bracing myself as the drop pod jerked violently from the titanium drag chute's deceleration.

I hit the retro thrusters at five hundred feet, bracing myself once more for the second jolt. With a resounding crash, my pod made landfall. I rested my head back and took a deep breath. "How the fuck am I alive?" I murmured to myself, slipping my photo of Sophie Devereux and me into my helmet and unstrapping myself.

The front of my pod blew clean off. I squinted as the bright Salamis sunlight poured into the pod's interior, letting my eyes adjust. After all, they had just been staring out into pure black outer space, so direct sunlight was a bit of a challenge for a few seconds.

I stretched out the kinks in my cramped muscles and grabbed my sniper rifle, quickly checking to make sure it hadn't been damaged by the slightly askew impact, and it hadn't been. It was just fine.

I straightened up, walking forward several paces. I looked all around my landing site. Nothing but golden savannah and short, greenish-brown trees as far as the eye could see in all directions. My pod's locater was fried, so I had no idea where I was. There wasn't anything that was…wait a sec…

I shouldered my sniper rifle and focused the scope on the oddity I had spotted on the horizon. I grinned when I confirmed my suspicions—one of my squadmates had landed nearby. I lowered my rifle and tried the SQUADCOM again.

This time, to my relief, I got a response. "_Scar? Scar, that you? Scar? Hello?_"

My grin widened into a smile. _Cajun_. "Yeah, Cajun, it's me," I said. "My pod's locater is fried; where the hell are we? And where are all the others?"

"_We're about ten klicks west o' Magaliesburg,_" my squadmate responded. "_We still managed to drop right into the Rhodesia Province…shit, if that ain't luck, I got no idea what is…_"

"Uh-huh…" I nodded, considering this. Rhodesia wasn't the largest province in the South Transvaal landmass; if we were within its borders, then the city of Rustenpoort—where Codename Orion was waiting for our arrival in a safehouse—couldn't be far away. "What about the rest of the squad, Cajun? I lost contact in the atmosphere. You hear from anyone?"

"_Apache landed somewhere nearby,_" was all Cajun could say. That also made sense—after the explosion when we were hitting the mesosphere, I was only able to make visual contact with two other pods. Cajun and Apache. "_As for the others…I dunno, Scar_. _I think they probably got knocked off course like us, but in the other direction. With them gettin' blown that far off course so high up in the sky…who knows where they landed?_"

"Great…" I murmured.

"_You jus' hold right there, Scar; I'm a-comin' to ya._"

"Negative, Cajun," I shook my head. "I'll come to you. Hold your position. Try and keep in contact with Apache, and we'll find him together."

"_Aight, Scar, sounds good. Cajun out._"

I clipped my sniper rifle to my back, made sure all my ammunition and emergency rations were in place. Once I was satisfied, I gave a long, weary sigh, set my shoulders, and started to forge my way ahead towards the shape of Cajun's pod in the distance.

We were still going to complete our mission if we could help it…but things had just gotten more complicated.


	43. III Chapter 43: Rustenpoort

Chapter Forty-Three: Rustenpoort

**February 16, 2542 (Military Calendar) \  
Salamis II, Fidus Alpha System**

The pair of Covie fliers swooped overhead, their booster thrusters screaming like the banshees for which they were named. I watched them go through the scope of my sniper rifle, watching them grow smaller as they flew farther away. "We're good," I said to Cajun and Apache, who were hunkered down in the shrubs next to me. The banshees had come out of nowhere, and we barely had time to dive for cover before they were on us. Luckily, we hadn't been spotted.

The town of Magaliesburg was obviously one of the more remote settlements on the South Transvaal landmass. The Rhodesia Province, after all, was in the heart of the continent, furthest away from any coastline. Doubtless once the population of Salamis increased in future generations, the town would grow larger...well, never mind. It wouldn't matter anyway; the Covenant was going to burn it all.

They had already been through Magaliesburg; that much was painfully evident. We could see the small town from the hill we were climbing down, and almost every single building was on fire. I wondered how many dead civilians were in that town. I my experience, I had observed that people who lived in extremely remote areas like these were the most resistant to evacuating. I remember back on Harvest when this war started, the families who lived out beyond Gladsheim who refused to heed Governor Thune's evacuation order. They did so because they were the type of people who preferred to withdraw from the world and wait things out. They had all burned for their stubbornness.

Doubtless, people had burned here, too. This was war, and war got extremely ugly.

After making my way to Cajun, we had both continued on and found Apache. The medic had been stuck in his pod, but we blew the front off and got him out alright. Luckily, his medical supplies were all intact. I hoped none of my other squadmates—wherever they were—were hurt...but at the same time, it comforted me to know that our medic was with us.

"Where are our targets, again?" Cajun asked as we made our way down the hillside towards Magaliesburg.

"Rustenpoort, the capital of this province, about a hundred and twenty kilometers west of this town," I replied. "Once there, we'll be able to find the ONI safehouse on our TACMAPs."

"You still want to try and rescue that damn family?" Cajun sounded surprised. "It was going to be hard enough with the _whole_ squad intact, but getting them out with just the three of us? There's _more_ of them than us!"

"They're probably dead, anyway," I sighed. "But we're checking the place. Maybe they're still alive. Maybe. We're still checking, and that's that. Besides, maybe we'll be able to find a military vehicle in the capital. We'll need one."

"This here's a bad idea, Scar," Cajun. "Yeah, rescuing Orion's our mission, and all, but the rules've changed. I just hope you realize that. We can't do as much as we're normally able."

"If there are people alive there, we will not leave them behind," Apache finally declared, daring Cajun to countermand him. And that was that.

We finally arrived in Magaliesburg after another hour or so of hiking through the open savannah. We didn't have anymore run-ins with banshees, thank Jesus, but I was still on edge after the last incident. The place was a damn ghost town. Anything that wasn't on fire was broken into and trashed.

Corpses were strewn across the streets every few yards, or so. Not all the civilian populace had gotten out in time, it seemed.

"Damn fools..." Cajun muttered. "When you get an evac order, in this day and age, you fuckin' _follow_ it. Don't people realize that _this_'s what happens when you ignore 'em?"

"If they ever received one," Apache murmured. "Maybe the Covies cut off communication...who knows what could have happened all the way out here?"

"It doesn't matter," I shrugged, forcing myself to look away from the carnage. "Knowing _why_ they didn't get out won't bring them back. Let's keep moving."

Most of the vehicles we found were all destroyed piles of scrap metal until we had nearly walked into the center of town. We managed to find a sedan in relatively good condition in front of a foodstore. Its bumper and hood were a little crumpled, and it was missing a driver's side door, but its engine was fine and the hydrogen fuel cell was still kicking. In short, it was a blessing.

"Think this scrap heap can last us until Rustenpoort?" Apache asked, rapping the rear window with his knuckles.

"Hey, don't speak ill of the vehicle," Cajun warned the Native American. "That there's bad luck."

"Perhaps," Apache conceded.

"You want to drive, I'm assuming?" I asked Cajun.

Cajun looked at me for a second, then burst out laughing, not saying a word. I rolled my eyes and slid into the passenger seat as Cajun took his rightful place behind the steering wheel. Apache climbed into the backseat, closing the door behind him.

Cajun kicked off the panel below the steering wheel and, with only a handful of swearwords, hotwired the setup. The engine coughed to life and the Louisianan eased the sedan off of the torn, pitted sidewalk and onto the street. We started moving down the road at a good pace, passing by the burned wreckage of Magaliesburg, the town that would never grow to be a city.

"If we get Covies on our tail in this thing, we're fucked," I grunted drumming my fingers on the window impatiently.

* * *

The drive across eastern Rhodesia from Magaliesburg to Rustenpoort was uneventful at first. Though the Covies had steamrolled on through Magaliesburg, there was nothing there for them to occupy the place, so they moved on. This wasn't the case with Rustenpoort, which was much larger than the remote town. The Covies had to go through the place with a fine-toothed comb.

We spent most of the drive in silence. I chatted with Cajun a little bit, and Apache sat silently in the back. For the most part, I just watched the savannah race by. I liked this landscape a lot better than the endless woods and moors of Irivet V, and the drive wasn't nearly as long as the one to the Forge had been on Irivet V. I knew we were coming up on our destination when I was able to see smoke on the horizon.

I could actually hear distant gunfire from UNSC weapons as we drew nearer and nearer to Rustenpoort. Our forces were definitely on the run…they may have actually retreated from the city, already. No matter; we had gone in already knowing that we were in for a fight.

"Scar, check your TACMAP," Cajun ordered me. "Find out where the ONI safehouse is."

Sure enough, we had been supplied with a tactical map of Rustenpoort, presumably by Captain Delucci during the briefing. I had never thought to look until now, but here it was.

I called up the TACMAP and, sure enough, there was a pulsing beacon over one of the residential areas in the southern quarter of the city. Rustenpoort was relatively small, as cities go, so it wasn't that far of a distance from here to that residential area…of course, it wasn't a straight shot from here to there. Covenant filled the whole damn place.

As we headed towards Rustenpoort, my heart skipped a beat as I saw what we were up against. This city was built more like an Old West town—all of the buildings and infrastructure clumped together in an urban cluster without anything surrounding it. No suburbs out here.

I could see the Covies from all the way out here. Wraiths patrolling the streets, formations of banshees soaring through the clouds. Brilliant flashes pulsed in the distance, evidence of the battle still raging between the Covenant vanguard and the retreating UNSC Army. Yeah, it was an Army unit instead of a Marine one; I rarely encountered them, but now seemed to be a special day.

"What, if you don't mind my asking, is our plan?" Apache asked.

"We can't drive right up to the safehouse," I said. "That'd bring every Covie in the whole damn city down on our heads. We can't very well sneak in all the way, either; it's inevitable that we'd get caught and killed with the amount of hostiles crawling through the area."

"Than we take the middle road," Cajun answered.

"Beg pardon?" Apache asked.

"We plow through the bastards 'till we're almost at our destination, then we ditch the car, give 'em the slip, and hole up 'till they disperse."

Apache gave a light sigh, as if he had expected such an answer. But he did not refute Cajun. That was good enough for me.

"You're a crazy son of a bitch, Cajun…but if you think you can drive through that muck and not get us fried…" my voice trailed off.

Cajun gave a slightly crazed laugh. "I could do it with-a goddamn school bus if ya wanted me to."

The funny thing was that I didn't doubt it for a second.

We started speeding in through the outlying structures of the capital city—mostly warehouses and storage facilities. There were a few groups of slumbering grunts scattered all over the place. I've no idea how they got past the Elites who were in charge of them, but they had managed to slip away from the fighting to catch up on some 'z's.

I think we ran over two or three; I remember hearing dull thuds followed by the sedan rocking a little bit, but I didn't bother to look back.

We didn't start running into any real resistance until we got past the outskirts and into the city proper. "Wraith on the right," I warned Cajun.

"I see 'im," the Louisianan murmured, pressing down on the accelerator. The sedan's back tires kicked up gravel and even gave a little screech as they gained traction, allowing the car to practically leap forward.

We had passed from a normal high speed into Cajun speed. Any faster than this, and I was afraid we would end up a few years in the future because of relativistic time distortion. I know, that's a huge exaggeration, but driving with Cajun _always_ felt faster than normal. I actually remember during my first mission with this squad, on New Constantinople, Cajun had driven a troop transport loaded with a squad of marines whom we had extracted from a hot zone. Though they were grateful for being rescued, most of them were retching their guts out by the time Cajun hit the brakes back at base.

Now, that crazy, lunatic of a driver inside Cajun would save our necks. He zigzagged through Covenant wraiths and other vehicles, and all the while avoiding crashing into the debris of the city. A plasma bolt exploded not far away, buffeting the sedan. The glove box fell open, spilling the notebooks and insurance documents of Piet Kaufmann, the previous owner of the sedan, onto my lap. I pushed them off; wherever Piet Kaufmann was, I doubt he would mind that we had jacked his car. He probably wasn't anywhere, anymore.

"Banshees are starting to get wise," Apache warned us from the back. "We nay have trouble coming up on our six."

"Scar, we still goin' the right way?" Cajun asked me through clenched teeth.

"Uh..." I called up my TACMAP, "We're still good for now, but we can turn right if we need to!"

"Turn right _where?_"

"Fucking _anywhere,_ damn it!"

"_Banshees!"_ Apache warned us again, only the slightest traces of urgency entering in voice.

I glanced in the rear view mirror and swore; sure enough, a trio of Covie fliers had formed up and were starting to swoop down on our position, their nose-mounted plasma cannons ablaze.

"Turn! _Turn!_" I screamed.

Cajun, whose reflexes were skyrocketing along with his adrenaline, instantly yanked the wheel to the right without a single protest. Even though I had known it was coming, the suddenness of the turn still threw me back into my seat. Apache would have been dashed against the left-side window if he hadn't been belted in. Even so, he had probably gotten a nice bruise or two from the jerk.

Cajun worked the e-brake, sending the sedan into a tight drift. Once we were facing down the next street, he released the brake and jammed down the accelerator once more. Cannons still blazing away, the three banshees that had been pursuing us sailed right on past. One of them actually tried to make the turn itself, but it had been flying too fast. Its trajectory made it clip one of the buildings, shearing off one of its wing thrusters. I could see the flier spiraling down towards oblivion, but I wasn't able to see the actual crash.

"Scratch one flier," I murmured.

"Roads, Scar! Concentrate on the roads!" Cajun shouted at me.

"Take _Osthenheir Boulevard,_ coming up in two kilometers!" I replied.

"We have ghosts in pursuit," Apache informed us, gazing out the rear window. "Maybe three or four. Other Covies cannot be far behind."

"An' just what the fuck am I s'posed to do about 'em?" Cajun snapped, swerving to avoid a burning three-car pileup. "We need a LAAG!"

"How far are we from the safehouse?"

I checked the TACMAP again. "Once we get onto _Osthenheir Boulevard,_ it's about another kilometer."

The three Covenant ghosts were gaining on us pretty damn fast, their forward cannons firing away. The sedan groaned as plasma started to bite into its rear. I could hear the fender give way. One of them remained behind, continuing to lay fire down on our back, while the other two started to inch forward.

I checked the TACMAP and swore again. _Osthenheir Boulevard_ was still a kilometer away. Those ghosts looked like they were going to try and ram us right off the road; they would probably get the chance before we even made it to our next turnoff.

The sedan rocked as one of the ghosts drew up alongside us and rammed into our side. Cajun cursed the Covies from their toes to their scalps, gritting his teeth in concentration as he focused all his energy on keeping the sedan on all four wheels, let alone on the road. The ghost rammed us again, causing Cajun to lose temporary control. We clipped the edge of another car wreck and nearly spun out, but Cajun just barely managed to hold on.

"Handle that fucker!"

"With what, my hostile intentions?" I shot back. I was armed with a sniper rifle and a pistol; not ideal anti-vehicle weapons. Where was Pyro when you needed him?

"Apache, pop the back door on 'im!" Cajun shouted finally as one of the ramming ghosts came up for another go. I have no idea why they didn't just hang back and pepper us with plasma until we melted…but I sure as hell wasn't complaining. If they wanted to play, they were in for one hell of a game.

Seeing Cajun's logic, Apache unlatched one of the back doors and kicked it open. The bottom of the door scraped against the curved alloy of the ghost's front armor, sending a brief shower of sparks into the wind. But it only briefly hit the armor; it went on to slam the Elite driver right in the face. The Elite wasn't killed, only knocked out. It slumped forward and the ghost sputtered and died.

Cajun slammed on the brakes. I let out a sharp yell as the seatbelt squeezed every cubic centimeter of air from my lungs. If I hadn't been wearing my armor, I probably would have dislocated a shoulder, but I _was_ wearing my armor, so I just got a sore arm. The two ghosts still on our tail zoomed right past us, surprised by our sudden halt. We were lucky they didn't crash right into us from behind.

"Apache, grab that ghost and give us some fire support!" Cajun ordered our medic. Apache was already climbing out the door and running towards the downed ghost. As the other two Covie assault vehicles started to wheel around and come back at us, Apache pulled the unconscious Elite from the ghost's seat and climbed in, powering up the Covie vehicle.

Cajun pounded the accelerator again, and we were off. I don't think we would have made it past those ghosts if Apache hadn't come in cannons blazing and distracted them. One of the ghosts was disabled by Apache's surprise attack. We shot past the other while it was trading fire with Apache.

Apache fell in behind us. "_I have your back_."

"How's that thing handlin', Apache?" Cajun asked the Native American over the SQUADCOM. "Been dyin' t'drive one o' them things for ages!"

"_Handles like a dream…or a nightmare; I am not quite sure which,_" Apache responded.

"Fuel rod on the rooftop!" I shouted pointing up ahead. A grunt hefting a fuel rod gun had spotted our sedan. It fired off a round towards us. It missed, but only just. It slammed into the ground right in front of us.

"_Motherfucking piece of no-good, goddamned_…" Cajun really started to lay on the profanity as he wrestled with the wheel. We started to spin out of control. Apache swerved out to avoid getting creamed.

Cajun grasped the e-brake and wrenched it so hard I was afraid it was going to break off. The car's braking system locked up and the wheels caught on the asphalt, reversing the spin and sending the back end of the car swinging around. The Louisianan released the brake and accelerated, aiming us in the opposite direction of the way the rear of the sedan was spinning.

We slammed into the brick side of a building and bounced right off. Cajun had straightened us out just as we made impact, so it was the broad side of the sedan that hit the building. Had it been a corner or the front, we'd be unconscious or dead, right now. As it was, we were thrown back onto the asphalt. Cajun didn't let up on the speed, but he managed to regain control after a few seconds.

We traded a quick glance and both started laughing. It wasn't a humorous laugh…just the result of getting pulled through a meatgrinder and coming out in one piece, then remembering that you weren't all the way through, yet.

I pointed to the left. "That's _Osthenheir_ right there!"

Not a moment too soon. Cajun took us down _Osthenheir_ just as a pair of wraiths turned onto the street right in front of us. We made a sharp turn onto the boulevard, just narrowly missing the barrage of plasma that tore up the asphalt where we had been a moment earlier.

A banshee swooped in from overhead and loosed a fuel rod projectile, which slammed into a building to one side. Debris from the blast peppered my window, sending spiderweb-shaped cracks running along its surface.

"Safehouse is just over three-fourths of a kilometer down this road!" I shouted to Cajun. I shouted it over and open SQUADCOM channel, so that Apache could hear me, too.

"_You boys bail the sedan and find a place to hole up,_" Apache ordered us. "_I'll take the Covies for a dance. Keep your SQUADCOM channel open so that I can find you again._"

"Keep yourself in one piece, mate!" was all I said in response.

"_Will do. Apache out_."

With that, Apache turned his ghost around and sped off, firing blindly at the pursuing Covie wraiths. The Covenant tanks swiveled, temporarily forgetting us, and started firing at Apache, who was a much greater threat with plasma cannons at his disposal.

Cajun gunned it down the boulevard for another minute, then slammed on the brakes once more, pulled over, and killed the engine. "C'mon, let's go!" he shouted, gesturing for me to hurry up as I unbuckled and stumbled out of the sedan.

"Good driving, as always…" I managed to squeak, staggering as I regained my balance.

The two of us sprinted down the road a good distance before holing up in one of the houses. Calling them 'houses' was pretty generous; most of them were half-burned down. This one was no exception; the entire second floor was gone, probably due to plasma bombardment, and most of the first floor was a charred mess.

"Basement?" Cajun suggested.

I nodded in agreement. "Basement."

* * *

"How much further along is it?" Cajun asked for the umpteenth time.

"You have a goddamn TACMAP on your VISR, too," I huffed. "_You_ look for a change."

"_Shh,_" Apache hissed. "You'll bring every Covie in the area down on our heads, the way you're bickering."

"Jus' a lil' good ole' brotherly love, Apache," Cajun chuckled.

Apache had stumbled into the basement of the house Cajun and I had been hiding in about an hour after we had ditched the sedan. I didn't ask him _how_ he had lost the Covies; those were just details.

We had waited in the basement, listening to Covie patrols rumbling down the street, for several more hours until things died down. Well, things hadn't quite died down all the way—there were still patrols every once in a while—but it was dark out, now, and we were able to go from house to house without being noticed.

I called up my TACMAP, checking our position compared to that of the beacon indicating the safehouse. I hadn't checked it for a little while, so I was surprised to find that it was only three houses ahead.

I told my two squadmates about the position of the safehouse. They gave grunts of surprise at our goal being so close by.

"Now, how can everything go to shit before we make it three more damn houses?" Cajun grumbled.

"Best not to tempt Fate," Apache warned the Louisianan. "It has a cruel sense of humor."

"Ain't that the damn truth…"

As it happened, a Covie patrol _did_ rumble past us when we reached our destination, but we went unnoticed. I think that was just Fate saying, 'Alright, Alley Garris, I'll let you off the hook this time. But I've still got my eye on you.'

Okay, Fate. Okay. We'll be good boys. Just leave us be for now, alright?

"They gone?" I whispered to Cajun, who was perched at the corner of the house we were hiding behind.

"Uh…_uh-huh,_" the Louisianan nodded. "Yep, they gone, now. Let's move."

Apache went first, crouch-walking across the yard between this house and the target house. Cajun and I followed. We regrouped behind the ONI safehouse, catching our breath. The house itself had fared no better than its neighboring domiciles; in fact, the entire back half was completely gone. The ceiling was gone as well, along with most of the side walls…only parts of the front of the house remained standing, along with some of the inside walls.

Satisfied that no more Covenant patrols were on their way, Cajun, Apache, and I slipped into the ruins of the ONI safehouse.

"_This_ is the safehouse?" Cajun didn't sound impressed. "I was expectin' somethin' a lil'…sturdier, I s'pose…"

"It's a safehouse, Cajun, not a base," Apache reminded the Louisianan. "A safehouse is for remaining under the radar, not withstanding plasma barrages…still, though…for someone this important to Delucci, there is probably some sort of reinforced panic room in here, somewhere."

"_Hello?_" I whisper-shouted, hoping to get any kind of response. Nothing. I tried again, a little louder. Still nothing.

I edged into a room that had probably been a dining room and nearly tripped. I looked down and instantly felt sick to my stomach. I had just stepped on the body of a man who was missing his head and most of the right side of his torso. A plasma blade must have seared him apart like that. An antique shotgun rested in his limp hand.

Cajun followed me into the room and swore at the sight. "That better not be codename Orion, or Delucci's gonna be pissed."

Though the nighttime made the room dark, my VISR made it much easier to see. I spotted the rest of the man's body not too far away, in the kitchen. The top part was already facing up, revealing the face. Strong, square jaw, blond hair starting to go gray, deep brown eyes…

"Yeah…" I sighed. "We've found Orion. We were too late..."

"_Shit…_" Cajun muttered.

"Where's the rest of his family?" I asked.

"I don' really wanna know, Scar…"

"In here, no doubt," Apache's voice came from the den, one more room over. Cajun and I made our way over. Apache gestured to the gaping hole in the ground under where the TV would have rested. "Once they busted in, Orion no doubt came out with that shotgun…he certainly got more than he bargained for."

I gazed into the gaping hole and saw that the floor had collapsed down through the basement, and the basement floor in turn had been disintegrated. The resulting crater was deep enough that it had actually breached the ceiling of the underground panic room, exposing it for all to see.

I called down into the hole at the bottom of the crater, but again, no response. "We still need to check it out," I decided. "They could still be alive down there, and if they aren't... If they aren't, we need to either confirm their deaths or declare them missing to Captain Delucci. Cajun, on me. Apache, keep a watch up here."

The crater was large enough that it spanned through the den's wall and into the guest bedroom, dominating most of the space. I slid down to the bottom, crawling over to the hole that opened up into the panic room.

I peered into the hole, swung my legs over the edge, and dropped down into the room below. Cajun came right behind me.

The panic room was a medium-sized room—about the size of your average den or garage. It had a radio, a couple of food cupboards, a refrigerator, and a water tap, as well as several fold-out cots and blankets. It was pretty much a bomb-shelter. Cajun turned on a pair of battery-powered lanterns, illuminating the space. My heart skipped a beat when I noticed the blood streaking the walls.

A brown-haired woman lay face-down on the floor in front of me. That was the first thing I saw. I grasped her by the shoulder and rolled her over, and instantly regretted the action. Her entire chest and stomach had been torn open. Most of the viscera was actually gone, and the little fragments that remained were charred black; I recognized that as the work of a plasma grenade. Once those things got stuck onto you, all you could do was pray that you get to whatever Afterlife you believed in before it went _BOOM_.

"Here's the wife…" I muttered.

"And the kids," Cajun gestured towards the cots with his MA5B. I don't know why he was holding the assault rifle…security, I guess.

There was a blond-haired girl—twelve or thirteen, I would guess—slumped against the wall near the cots, a needle rifle spike impaling her in the forehead, right between her eyes. At least a hit like that would have taken her life quick. Instantly, in fact. Near her corpse was the body of a younger boy—eight or nine years old. A plasma blade had sliced across his chest, and he seemed to have bled out. _That_ would have taken a little longer.

I couldn't take it any longer. I ripped off my helmet, fell to one knee, and puked the remains of my breakfast out onto the floor, along with any bile that hitched a ride up with the mostly-digested pancakes and sausage. I had seen death on a regular basis for years, but that same feeling of disgust still surfaces every once in a while, and sometimes you just can't hold your stomach down anymore. If only we had gotten here a day sooner, maybe they would still have been alive.

No…no, that kind of thinking could drive men cuckoo…best to put it out of my mind…

"Steady, there, Scar. Steady," Cajun murmured.

I spat out the last of the vomit, rinsing my mouth out with water from my canteen, and put my helmet back on. "Let's get the fuck out of here, Cajun."

"Wait a sec," Cajun held up a hand. "We're missing one."

"What?"

"Orion had three kids, remember? Two boys and a girl. We found one girl and one boy; where's kid number three?"

Cajun raised a good question, but I was still sickened at the sight of the slaughtered family, and I just wanted _out_. "I don't know, Cajun, and I don't give a shit. We'll list him as missing when we report to Delucci. Now, I'll say it again; let's get the fuck _outta_ here-"

I froze at that moment because I heard something move. It was a quiet movement, something a normal person would have dismissed, but I had really good hearing. Cajun's gaze flitted over to one of the food cupboards as well. So, he had heard it, too.

"_Check it,_" Cajun whispered.

I _was_ closer, so I gave a quick nod, silently crossing over to the cupboard and grabbing the handle. I listened carefully, but I couldn't hear anything else coming from inside. Maybe it had been my imagination…_no,_ I shook my head. Cajun had heard it, too.

I quietly counted to three, and then I quickly pulled the cupboard door open. I found myself staring down the barrel of a loaded magnum pistol.

It fired.


	44. III Chapter 44: Sleeping Dragon

Chapter Forty-Four: Sleeping Dragon

**February 17, 2542 (Military Calendar) \  
Salamis II, Fidus Alpha System**

I was hitting the floor before the gunshot even registered in my brain. No one could dodge bullets, but after fighting almost nonstop against the Covenant for...coming on sixteen or seventeen years, now, I had developed hair-trigger reflexes. These same reflexes could make it hard for me to sit still in a room or even focus on a conversation for very long, and though I was thankfully able to suppress them when I was sniping, they kept me alive when I was in the thick of things.

They saved my hide here, too. The moment I saw the shape of a gun pointed at me, my body was diving down before my brain even ordered it to. Even so, when the magnum fired, I could feel it just barely nick the very top of my helmet, probably leaving a small burn mark. I had escaped, but barely. Several more shots rang out, along with high-pitched cries mixed with Cajun's startled shouts.

I heard the magnum click empty, and I kicked the cupboard door open, grabbing the pistol and ripping it from the shooter's grasp while drawing my own. By the time I dropped the shooter's magnum, I had thumbed off the safety of mine and was aiming it into the cupboard. Cajun racked the bolt of his MA5B and lowered into a firing stance as all of this was happening, looking for a clear shot at the attacker.

Then my VISR compensated for the extra darkness inside the cupboard and I was able to see my attacker; a small, skinny, blond-haired, five-year-old boy. To my surprise, the damned kid actually jumped out of the cupboard at me, kicking me right in the family jewels. Five-year-old or not, ODST armor or not, that kick _hurt_. I sank to my knees, dropping my magnum, grunting at the ache between my legs.

The kid threw a punch at my face—I guess the fact that my faceplate was in the way didn't faze him—but I caught his fist in my own, jerked him forward, and seized the boy in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides and holding him fast.

Tears streamed from the kid's eyes and he screamed, struggling and twisting around for all he was worth. He would probably be pounding away with his fists if I wasn't pinning his arms down.

"_Shut up!_" Cajun snapped.

I readjusted my grip, wrapping one arm around the struggling boy and clamping my free hand around his mouth.

"Not helping, Cajun! Not helping!" I grunted, hauling the five-year-old over to one of the walls, where I braced my back and tightened my grip even more. "Put your gun down, dammit!"

The kid kept on fighting for at least a full minute before I could feel his energy start to die away. Who knows how long it had been since he had last eaten or slept; it was mind-boggling that he had been able to fight so hard.

I started speaking softly into his ear. "Calm down, kid…calm down. We're not here to hurt you; we're the good guys."

The boy started to calm down, wilting like a dying flower.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?" I repeated myself. "I'm going to take my hand off your mouth if you promise not to scream. If you scream, the ones who killed your family will find us again, so I need you to stay quiet. Can you do that for me?"

The boy strained against my arm one last time, and then went limp. His head lolled forward when I removed my hand; he had passed out. I shrugged—easier for all of us.

"_What is going on down there?_" Apache hissed down from the hole in the ceiling.

"We got a live one," Cajun said to the Native American. "Kid nearly shot Scar's face off."

"Well get back up here, _now,_" Apache sounded urgent, so all obviously wasn't well with the world right at this moment. "Those gunshots attracted some unwanted attention; there's a Covie armored patrol coming right for us."

"That's our cue," I nodded to Cajun. My squadmate jumped up, grabbing hold of the ceiling hole and pulling himself out of the panic room. I handed the kid up to Cajun, killed the lights in the panic room, picked up my magnum, and climbed up myself.

"Where is the rest of the family?" Apache asked me as he helped me up through the hole.

"Dead," I replied. "The wife and the other two children…the Elites got here before we did."

Apache was silent for a few moments, but he then gave a long sigh and bowed his head. The medic uttered a brief prayer in the Lakota language. He finished a few seconds later and hefted his M7 caseless SMG, making his way up to the top of the crater which we were in. I was hot on his heels.

"Hand him back," I gestured at the kid, who Cajun had slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, as I climbed back up into the ground floor of the house.

"What, don' trust me with the little brat?" Cajun chuckled. "He coulda killed ya, Scar."

I raised an eyebrow at my squadmate. "He just lost his family, Cajun. That, and he's only five years old; I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. And, no, I _don't_ trust you with him; hand him over."

"Wonder how he even got a gun like that…" Cajun murmured as he handed me the kid, who I hoisted onto my back around my sniper rifle.

"Orion probably left it for his family when he went out to fight off those Elites," Apache guessed.

"Yeah, _that_ turned out extremely well…" I muttered, remembering the sight of the woman and two children's corpses, riddled with Covie weaponsfire. They hadn't been able to take the easy way out.

We kept up a fast pace, moving along at a swift jog. We wouldn't be able to take cover in one of the nearby houses, anymore. The Covies had heard the gunshots from when the five-year-old had tried to blow my face off; gunshots meant armed hostiles to them, and so they would most likely tear the whole place apart looking for humans.

We had to get away from this neighborhood. Even more than that, we had to get the hell out of this city. It would be a lot easier to lose pursuers when we vanished into the vastness of the Rhodesian Savannah.

"That sedan we came in on from Magaliesburg won't last us very long," I informed the others, though I knew they already knew this. But it would encourage them to start giving possible ideas to get out of our current predicament.

"Don't you worry about that," Apache assured us.

"What…you find somethin' out there? You get us another car? Or maybe even a warthog?" Cajun asked, his voice going up a little in anticipation.

"Better," Apache stated. "A dragon."

I swore. Yeah, back when I had been regular infantry, those M1-Delta heavy battle tanks had been godsends. Able to withstand all but the most powerful of weapons the Covies could throw at them, the heavy battle tanks were titans on the battlefield. But actually _driving_ one of them…

During my training to be an orbital drop shock trooper, we had undergone mandatory crash courses in operating practically every kind of vehicle in the UNSC arsenal.

I was a pretty accomplished driver. I was a little weak when it came to aircraft, but I was pretty good in the driver's seat of anything with wheels. Warthogs, mongooses, civilian cars, troop transports—I was even pretty good with Covie ground vehicles.

Then there were tanks. Oh, I could drive them…but I hated it. We had trained with scorpions in the Ural Mountains. The controls were enough to turn a man into an alcoholic—why have six pedals for four directions, for example? And then you would have to worry about the main cannon and _aiming_ the damn thing while driving, for Pete's sake…

Maybe M1-Deltas would be easier to handle…after all, they were five-man tanks—a tank commander, a gunner, a loader, a bow gunner, and a driver. The driver of a dragon would be just that; a driver—not like the operator of a scorpion tank, who had to be the gunner, commander, and driver all rolled into one.

But still…tanks were tough beasts to tame. Apache was no driver, and Cajun was even worse with tanks than me. I already knew that I would get stuck as the driver. And that left Cajun and Apache. Three men crewing a five-man tank. We could live without a bow gunner, I suppose, and we would probably have to go without anyone in the tank commander's position. The two most necessary jobs were the driver and the gunner, and a gunner would need a loader.

"I found a dragon not too far away, after we split up on _Osthenheir Boulevard,_" the Native American explained. "I passed it by as I led the Covenant away from you on that ghost, and I remembered the location in case we needed to utilize it…it seems that we do."

"What in tarnation is a fully functional dragon doin' in the middle o' this place, anyway?" Cajun sounded confused. "I could understand findin' wrecked husks out 'ere, but fully functional tanks?"

"Perhaps the engine overheated and the crew was forced to abandon it," Apache suggested. "I know only the 'what'; not the 'why'."

"Good enough for me. _Let's go wrangle ourselves a tank,_" I said in a bad imitation of Cajun's twangy accent.

Cajun flipped me the bird.

We stalked through the streets of Rustenpoort for what seemed like hours. We moved like shadows—flitting from house to house, cover to cover. Moving when the coast was clear, hunkering down when Covie patrols rumbled past.

It felt like we were moving all night, though I knew it hadn't been that long. I'd say it was safe to say that we had been on the move for at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half.

"How far away _was_ this damn thing?" Cajun muttered, his voice low and gravelly with impatience. "I jus' wanna get back on the road."

"Farther than I thought," Apache admitted. He then shrugged unapologetically, saying, "Distances seem a lot shorter when you're traversing them at ninety miles per hour on an alien vehicle than they do on foot."

It took us another fifteen or twenty minutes to finally get to the place where Apache remembered seeing the M1-Delta. Fortunately, it was still right where the Native American remembered, and—sure enough—it was in good condition. Unfortunately, two Covie patrols had converged in the intersection near the tank's resting place, and the members of both patrols were conversing with one another.

It took us another half-hour to sneak past them. We almost blew everything when we were about halfway to the tank when the boy on my back suddenly started to stir. He unconsciously tightened his arms around my neck and started to murmur something unintelligible. I froze up, temporarily petrified at the possibility of the Elites hearing us.

Then, thank all Creation, the kid relaxed and fell silent. I didn't falter with relief or stop to take a deep breath, however. The kid was going to wake up really soon, and it would happen out in the open if we didn't hurry.

When we reached the dragon, I climbed up on top of the heavy battle tank and crawled over to the commander's cupola. The hatch was open—no doubt the crew, when bailing out, hadn't bothered to close it behind them. Who _would_ worry about such trivialities when Covies were sprinting towards you?

I lowered myself in through the hatch, taking a step back from the opening once I was inside. Cajun and Apache silently slid inside as well. Cajun sealed the hatch above him after he dropped in.

I crossed over to the tank commander's console and activated the dragon's internal lights. Strips of neon gas lights flickered to life, illuminating the interior of the tank. It was okay to do this—nothing would see the light from the outside because we were sealed up tighter than a crab's buttocks.

I lay the kid down on the floor behind the driver and bow gunners' seats up front before relaxing _in_ the driver's seat. Apache sank down into the commander's chair while Cajun rested back against the gunner's station. We remained like this for several minutes, just resting up from our little midnight stroll.

The kid woke up around ten minutes later. I heard him sniffle a few times, then just the sound of his slow breathing accelerating to a normal rate.

"I think the kid's awake," Cajun remarked from the back of the interior, where he was still propped up against the main cannon firing controls.

"You don't say?" I rolled my eyes, rising from my seat. The boy was sitting up. His eyes were puffy and red, but no tears were being shed from them. He was no longer crying, which I suppose was a relief, though I really couldn't blame the kid if he continued to do so. His brow was furrowed and his mouth had hardened into a thin line. In short, he looked pissed off.

He glanced at me. The first thing that went through my mind was the kid's eyes. They were a harsh, piercing electric blue…eyes that just seemed to stare right through you. The kid fixed me with that gaze of his and spoke two names in a questioning tone. "H...Helmut? Maria...?"

It took me a second to get the meaning of those names. "Your brother and sister?" I asked.

Wordlessly, the young boy nodded.

"They're…" Images of bodies of the two children in that panic room flashed through my mind. The spike spearing through the girl's skull, the plasma laceration across the boy's chest, exposing his innards… I considered lying to the boy, but found that I wasn't able to do it. Lying wouldn't help the poor kid, anyway, and he was old enough to distinguish lies from truth. Lying to him would just make him angrier. "They're gone, kid. They're dead."

"The aliens killed them," the boy nodded, as if in a trance, speaking with a light Afrikaner lilt—an unusual accent that sounded similar to the Australian accent, but not quite. It was harsher and more clipped than Aussie. He still didn't cry, though…instead, he just seemed to get angrier and angrier, until he was practically radiating animosity. "They killed them…my brother, my sister, my mom…my dad…" the kid murmured, slowly clenching his hands into tightly-balled fists until they started to shake a little bit. "Why? _Why_ did they kill them?"

"Because…" My voice trailed off, as I really had no good answer to his question. Finally, I simply said, "Because it's what the aliens do." That was all I could say because, hell; _I_ had no idea why the Covies were so interested in slaughtering us.

"I want to kill them, too," the boy declared. "They killed my family… I want them dead. I want to make them all dead… Every last one…"

I traded glances with Apache and Cajun. I have to admit, this kid was starting to unnerve me a little bit. Most children I had seen in a warzone would go hysterical with tears…this one was just getting twenty kinds of angry.

I didn't know what to say for a few moments. This kid was pretty damn angry, and I didn't really want to…well, I didn't want to interrupt his internal meltdown and become the receptacle for his negative emotions. Thankfully, I didn't have to. The boy calmed down finally, like the heat being sucked out of an oven. I regarded him with equal parts curiosity and pity.

I realized that I had gone all this time without asking his name. ONI would probably raise all kinds of hell if I knew the kid's actual name…but ONI wasn't here right now, _were_ they? To hell with them. I wasn't going to go the rest of the way across South Transvaal calling him 'kid', 'boy', or 'son'. He was a human being, and human beings had names.

"You have a name, kid?" I asked him.

The boy nodded sullenly, but said nothing.

I pressed him further. "Mind telling me what it is?"

"Alex."

"Well, Alex," I picked my words carefully, "you'll go to a refugee camp, and maybe you'll get adopted. You'll grow up, and when you're seventeen or eighteen, if you still want to kill these aliens as badly as you want to now, then you can enlist in the military."

"But I want to kill them _now!_"

I flicked an anxious glance towards the ceiling, wondering how well the armor of the dragon could contain sound. Cajun pulled himself over to the back of the tank and removed one of the panels, inspecting the engine of the dragon.

"You'll have to wait," Apache said. "I'm afraid watching us do _our_ job will have to suffice for now."

As the Native American spoke, Cajun gave a muffled grunt from the back of the dragon as he put the engine panel back on. "Looks like the thing was hit by a plasma overcharge—energy from the hit shorted the whole damn thing out. It's right as rain now; the original crew probably didn't have time to wait for it to come back online."

"What's stopping it from happening to _us?_" Apache asked.

Cajun rapped the engine panel with his knuckle. "Dragons' engines are ruggedized to withstand EMP pulses; that's why they can normally withstand the energy overload of plasma overcharges," Cajun explained to us. "An overcharge would have to directly strike the engine compartment at the back of the underbelly to short us out; a near impossible hit. Some Covie got lucky the last time around."

"Take your posts, then," I ordered. I slid into the driver's seat, pulling Alex into the bow gunner's seat next to me so that I could keep an eye on him. I didn't want him going off and trying to do something stupid. I really didn't know what 'something stupid' really entailed…but who the hell in their right mind would bring a four or five-year-old onto a tank in the middle of a warzone?

Cajun took his place at the gunner's post, and Apache pored over the commander's console, inputting the appropriate commands that would wake the sleeping dragon. A series of digital hums reverberated through the tank's interior as its systems were powered up. The neon lights winked out and were replaced by the hellish red glow of the combat lighting system, which lit the gunnery in the back of the interior.

Up front, the only light came from my driver's controls and the soft glow of the U-shaped viewscreen—wrapping around both the driver and bow gunners' seats so that the driver could see what was outside of the tank in a full 180-degree radius. It wasn't up and running yet, but the brightening white surface was enough to cast my face and that of the boy's in a pallid glow.

"Alright…" Apache took a deep breath, and then activated the dragon's starting sequence. "Here we go."

I took a deep breath myself and gripped the steering controls. No going back now.


	45. III Chapter 45: Angry Dragon

Chapter Forty-Five: Angry Dragon

**February 17, 2542 (Military Calendar) \  
Salamis II, Fidus Alpha System**

The dragon roared to life. My wraparound viewscreen flickered and resolved into a green-tinged image of the streets of Rustenpoort outside. Everything had a faint amber outline, and the Covenant vehicles and Elites had red outlines. It was just like the night mode of our VISRs.

The two Covie patrols that had been outside all swung towards us, their surprise at the dead tank coming to life evident in their actions. I knew that we had mere seconds before they overcame their initial surprise and started shooting.

"Main cannon coming online..._now,_" Apache reported from the commander's seat. The Native American quickly brought all the tank's other systems online, then left the commander's chair and joined Cajun in the back so that he could load the shells, taking place of the damaged automatic loading system.

That was one of the drawbacks of this particular M1-Delta; no automatic loading. The system had been fried when the tank had gotten hit by the overcharge, so the shells had to be loaded into the main cannon's breech by a crewman; in this case, Apache. It was a small price to pay, though, for all of the other perks the dragon sported.

I looked down at my feet and gave a sigh of relief; there were only three pedals, as opposed to the scorpion's six. I hit what I hoped was the accelerator and, thankfully, the dragon lurched forward. I quickly gave myself a crash-course with the steering levers, getting a feel for the controls as we rumbled forward towards the Covies.

Plasma-shot started to fly through the air, dispersing against the dragon's external armor.

Cajun peered through the gunner's periscope and pulled the triggers. The main cannon roared—it was loud enough in here, but outside it was like a volcano going off. I had once made the mistake, back when I was a green private during the Harvest Campaign, of standing next to a dragon when it fired its main cannon without covering my ears or wearing a helmet. I had gone deaf in one ear for a week, and the other wouldn't stop ringing for double that time.

No, it was quite bearable in here.

A shell streaked out of the main cannon and slammed into the street, sending debris and body parts flying. A ghost brewed up in flames, its driver a charred, mangled mess.

Other Covies scrambled to get out of the way, but the wraiths were starting to turn, their plasma mortars warming up. While the next shot was getting loaded, Cajun aimed the main cannon at the fleeing Covies and opened fire with the coaxial machinegun, toppling several hostiles like tenpins.

"_AP!_" Cajun shouted. "Armor-piercing, Apache; let's go!"

"Which one is-"

"The silver-tipped ones!"

Apache selected the appropriate kind of shell from the ammo stockpile and slid it into the breech. He gave Cajun a short pat on the shoulder to let the Louisianan know that he was done.

The main cannon roared a second time, and one of the wraiths broke apart in a fiery haze.

Alex—the young boy who we'd pulled out of the wreckage of the ONI safehouse—winced, sinking down into his seat, his hands clasped over his ears. Just because the noise was bearable for me didn't mean it was the same for others.

I pushed the accelerator as far as it could go. Naturally, tanks could not travel at a faster speed than warthogs or other ground vehicles, but dragons could still go pretty damn fast, as long as the terrain wasn't too unfriendly. This dragon was able to top out at seventy or so miles per hour, traveling on the roads.

The horizon in the east was beginning to brighten ever so slightly as the sun started to inch its way up into our part of the sky. Not that it mattered a whole lot; the Covies were up and at it night and day.

A plasma bolt from another wraith struck the dragon, but the frontal armor held firm. I took us around the second wraith and gunned it. The speedometer needle gave a jump as the dragon increased its speed.

Adrenaline coursed through my body as I got the hang of the controls. Something about being at the wheel—metaphorically, in this case—of something this powerful gave me a bit of a rush.

"Watch out!" the kid cried out suddenly, pointing up.

I glanced to the place where he was pointing and swore again. "Target! Fuel rod mount on the rooftop at one o'clock!"

Cajun shifted the main cannon in the appropriate direction. "Identified…gimme a round of HE!"

Apache complied, and Cajun fired a high-explosive round into the rooftop where the Covies had a fuel rod cannon mounted and ready to fire. The shell took out half the building, not to mention the hapless Covies.

We found ourselves back on _Osthenheir Boulevard,_ the largest road in the residential area. While this road would certainly have a larger Covenant presence, it would also serve as our best way of getting out of here as fast as possible.

I pushed the dragon to its top speeds, squeezing every mile per hour out of it as I could. More than once, we encountered Covie infantry. Sometimes Cajun would finish them with a high-explosive or a canister round, or he would be able to cut them up with the coaxial machinegun mounted under the main cannon, but more often than not we just passed them by. If we had had one more person to man the frontal machinegun, we could have dealt out a lot more damage.

But we can't have everything, can we?

I briefly considered trying to see if Alex would be able to handle the bow machinegun, but perished the thought just as quickly as it presented itself to me. Having a five-year-old on a tank to begin with was a ridiculous notion, let alone having him operating a piece of weaponry that _I_ hadn't even been allowed to so much as look at before I went through the proper training.

I no longer paid heed to anything Cajun and Apache were doing in the gunnery. I focused all my attention on driving this damn thing, as well as calling out the locations of potentially fatal Covie emplacements and vehicles.

Cajun was a death machine with the main cannon he knew exactly where to fire the shells to disable other Covie vehicles…or maybe he was just plain lucky.

We turned off _Osthenheir_ and moved onto one of the main avenues running through Rustenpoort. I couldn't just bomb down this street because there was a ton of wreckage obstructing it. This city hadn't been very heavily populated, though, so the wreckage wasn't impossible to navigate. Difficult, but not impossible.

Cajun sent another HE shell streaking into a Covie patrol that was coming from a side street. The red outlines on the hostile forces flashed and faded away as the shell sent them to Hades. Cajun fired again, taking out another ghost. The remains of the enemy vehicle went spinning away into the night. I could hear the Louisianan laughing maniacally, the coaxial machinegun clattering as it spat lead out into the scattering Covies.

"Banshees, eleven o'clock high!" I warned the gunnery, watching as a trio of those damned Covie fliers appeared in the dragon's viewscreen.

"On it!" Cajun shouted back. "Armor-piercing!"

I threw the dragon into a sharp turn to avoid a fuel rod bomb from one of fliers.

Cajun's shot hit the banshee on the left. The Louisianan didn't target the lead banshee because it had already fired. Better to knock out a flier that was ready to drop a fuel rod on our heads at a moment's notice than one that had already fired.

The third flier was able to loose a projectile, anyway. I swore as it hit the side of the dragon, causing some minor structural damage. We were fine for the moment, but we wouldn't be able to bend over and take that kind of punishment very much longer.

The speed gradually increased to sixty-five miles per hour. We were making really good time, all things considered. Had we been on our way to a party or a social gathering, I would have been more satisfied about the speed. But, as it was, we were running for our lives, so it wasn't fast enough. I don't think anything this side of Mach 1 would have been fast enough for me.

The dragon rocked suddenly as something hit us from behind. Now _that_ was a cause for concern—the rear armor was weaker than the side or frontal armor. I switched the viewscreen to rear view so I could see what was after us.

"Pair of wraiths on our six, Cajun!" I warned my squadmate.

I switched the viewscreen back to its forward setting just in time to avoid the overturned tractor trailer I had been bombing towards. The dragon rocked as Cajun fired an AP round behind us. The Louisianan swore, suggesting that he missed. Undeterred, however, he simply adjusted his aim and opened fire again.

The tank rocked again as the wraiths hit us a second time. We weren't going to survive another hit to the back like that. "Handle those wraiths, damn it!" I snapped. For a brief instant, I almost censored myself because of the fact that there was a five-year-old boy sitting next to me…but only for an instant. He had witnessed his family get slaughtered by Elites—hearing a few naughty words wouldn't hurt him.

Cajun snapped back something equally profane, but I didn't bother to reply. He had a job to do. I heard the dull _thunk_ of Apache jerking an AP shell into the breech, followed by another blast form the main cannon. "Scratch one wraith…" the Louisianan murmured.

More Elites started firing down at us from nearby rooftops lining the street. I glanced anxiously up at the aggressors as I navigated my way down the avenue. Sure, those Covies really weren't much of a threat to the dragon, but if they were joined by an Elite or a grunt with a fuel rod gun or a plasma grenade launcher, we were in big trouble.

It would have been so easy to wipe them out if we had someone to man the ball-mounted frontal machinegun, but we couldn't have everything. I suppose I should be grateful that, between the three of us—the kid didn't count—we were able to man the main cannon and drive.

Cajun fired the main cannon once more, reporting the destruction of the second wraith.

"Engine might've been singed a tad bit," my squadmate observed. "We'll need ta watch our six more carefully!"

"I'm rerouting the tail camera to your console!" I replied. With that in place, Cajun and Apache would be able to see when something was behind us. The only other way would be switching my driving viewscreen to the rear imaging, which I had done just a minute ago, but I wouldn't be able to see anything in front of me. That was too dangerous.

"Got it," Cajun informed me.

We continued to shoot our way down the main avenue, dodging enemy banshees and wraiths along the way. I think that if this had been an actual battlefield right now, we wouldn't have lasted two minutes. However, this was _not_ a battlefield; most of the Covie forces had moved on past the city, pushing towards the east coast of South Transvaal. None of the resistance we encountered here would amount to anything compared to the Covenant forces on the front lines.

Which didn't mean that bulling through Rustenpoort was _easy_—far from it. The going was extremely difficult, as opposed to impossible. _Easy_ was a whole new ballpark. Out of the question.

We were nearing the eastern outskirts of the city when Fate decided to up the stakes. I spared another glance up towards the rooftops to make sure there weren't any Covies with heavy weapons up there ready to deep-fry us, when I saw it. At first, I only saw the top-mounted heavy plasma cannon moving amongst the skyline.

I already knew what it was, though, so when a large portion of the next block ahead was blown to kingdom come in a colossal explosion of green energy, I was not particularly surprised.

"_Scarab!_" I yelled, gripping the driving controls even tighter than before.

Cajun started swearing again, but I tuned him out. The horrible, insectoid, mechanical form of the Covie scarab parted the fire and smoke of the leveled block and tromped out onto the street. Its nose-mounted cannon swiveled towards us, the green glow of the heavy weapon gradually brightening to a blinding white.

"Evasive maneuvers!" Apache started to shout, but I cut him off halfway through.

"What the fucking hell do you _think_ I'm doing?" I snapped, throwing the dragon into a hard turn as the scarab opened fire.

A roiling beam of green energy lanced out of the scarab's forward cannon and tore into the street. Burnt-out shells of automobiles spun through the air, debris flew every which way, and a giant, smoldering gash was ripped down the center of the avenue, just barely missing the tail of our dragon.

The scarab started charging up its cannon for a second shot.

"Hang on!" I turned the dragon even further. Instead of going back out onto the avenue, I whipped around a corner and started down another road. I winced as the buildings to our right vanished in another conflagration of scarlet fire and green energy. The destructive plasma energies tore through the block as well, ripping through the asphalt and pavement behind us, shaking the very ground.

I gunned it, speeding down the road, dodging debris and other obstruction. The coaxial machinegun was constantly clattering, taking down any Covie infantry stupid or unlucky enough to get in our way.

The scarab broke through the wreckage and turned down this road as well, bearing down on us from behind. It fired its forward cannon a third time. Most of the beam missed, but the tail end of it splashed over the top of the dragon.

Static whited out the viewscreen for a moment, but the image was quickly restored by the dragon's backup systems. I moved to wipe the sweat off of my forehead, but stopped when my hand struck my faceplate—I had forgotten I was wearing my helmet. I unsealed the damn thing and pulled it off, letting it clang onto the floor.

"Coolant system took a beating, there!" Apache warned us.

"These things have coolant systems?" Cajun exclaimed, which just about summed up the level of our knowledge of these tanks.

"Forget it; just keep shooting!"

"_Scar, hard left!_" Cajun bawled.

I knew there was only one thing that could mean. I swerved left onto the sidewalk, knocking over parking meters and mailboxes as if they were toothpicks. I glanced over to the right edge of the viewscreen and watched the next plasma beam cut a swathe through the road.

Manhole covers burst into the air, billowing steam and…other substances into the air. The ground started to shake again as the plasma beam tore through everything in its path. But that wasn't all; fat, whopping slugs of plasma started searing into the ground all around us as the scarab opened fire with its top-mounted plasma cannon along with its nose-mounted beam. It was like being in the devil's washing machine; the only thing worse than this amount of chaos was going feet-first into Hell before a mission.

All the plasma flying through the air lit up the night like one of those expensive light shows, like the Devil himself was setting off fireworks.

Alex squeezed his eyes shut and clasped his hands over his ears. He started crying, "Make it stop! _Make it stop!_" at the top of his lungs.

"Calm down or shut up; choose one!" Cajun snapped at the kid as he adjusted the main cannon for his next shot.

The kid's angry, profanity-laced response sounded surreal—not to mention very, very _wrong_—coming from a five-year-old's mouth, but it just went to show how infectious Cajun's foul mouth could be to everyone within earshot of it.

"_Heh…_I like this kid…" Cajun grunted, actually coming close to a giggle, something I had never heard out of the grungy Louisianan.

The laughter was cut off by another round of plasma barrages, followed by the _BOOM_ of our main cannon firing. Cajun uttered another oath under his breath. "What in hell are we s'posed to do about this goddamn thing? Ain't nothin' this side-of-a HAVOK that'd take that scarab down!"

I spared a quick glance around at Cajun, who was peering through the gunsights, and I realized that, in the four years I had fought as a part of this squad, we had never run into a single scarab. But still…we had all fought in combat _before_ joining this squad. "Have you never fought a scarab before, Cajun?" I shouted to be heard over the chaos of the barrage.

"Fight? No!" Cajun shook his head. "I've ran my ass _away_ from scarabs, but I ain't never _fought_ one o' them bad boys!"

"Aim for its knees!" I advised him. "Knock out its leg joints, and down it goes!"

"How the hell do ya know that?"

"I've seen it happen on Verus III; just do it!"

The main cannon went off and Cajun started swearing again. "Keep us steady, goddamnit!"

"_You_ want to drive this heap?"

"Quiet, both of you!" Apache quelled us. I returned my attention to the road ahead. The place was jam-packed with cars—evidence of the frenzied attempt by the city's inhabitants to get the hell out of dodge. Most were not successful, and many of them could still be seen dead in their seats.

"Steady, Scar…steady…steady…" Cajun pulled the triggers, firing the main cannon, and gave a triumphant whoop as the shell hit home. "_Woo_ yeah! Got the fucker right in the knee, jus' like you…" the Louisianan's voice trailed off as another plasma beam sliced across our dragon's armor. The scarab wasn't finished, yet. "The hell…? What the _fuck,_ Scar! I hit 'im right where ya told me to!"

"So keep shooting it, dumb-shit!" I screamed back at him. "I never said it'd go down in just one hit, did I? Keep going for that knee you hit!"

"Armor-piercing, Apache; let's go!"

An Elite zealot—or if it wasn't a zealot, it was definitely one of their higher-ups—came sprinting out from around a corner up ahead, flanked by half a dozen black-armored Spec Ops Elites. They were brave souls, I had to give them that; all the other Covies had vacated the street with the scarab bearing down on it.

The Spec Ops Elites wielded plasma repeaters, mostly, but the zealot was armed with what looked like a plasma grenade launcher; basically the Covenant equivalent of Cajun's own grenade launcher.

The muzzle of the weapon glowed white before it discharged a single plasma grenade, which stuck to the side of the dragon, where it detonated, leaving a good dent in the armor.

This was bad. It would take a lot of plasma grenades to breach the armor of a dragon, but it would take only one or two to take out one of the tank's treads. If we lost a tread, then we were stranded; or, in other words, _dead meat_.

We had no one to man the bow machinegun, and the main cannon was facing behind us as Cajun took out the scarab on our tail. We had no defense against these Elites.

Having no defense against the Elites left me with a single choice; _offense_. I squeezed every ounce of speed that I could out of the dragon's engine, sending us rumbling forward on a path that would put us right past the Elites.

The zealot seemed to be expecting this. I could see him as he shouldered his launcher and started to charge it up. He didn't fire a grenade, though; he was most likely charging it up to full capacity, which would send _four _plasma grenades jetting my way.

But the zealot wasn't ready for everything. Just as we came up onto the group of Elites and the zealot started to open fire at our treads, I threw the dragon into a tight swerve to the left. The dragon was going at speeds in excess of seventy miles per hour, so combine that with the sheer mass of the tank and you can imagine what the result was.

The zealot was pulped before it even knew what hit it. I could almost hear the warbles of surprise that must have come from the Elites' throats as one hundred fifty tons of screaming UNSC titanium came barreling into them.

We hit six of those Elites—one of the Spec Ops Elites was able to leap out of the way just in time. But the plasma launcher-wielding zealot was, putting it lightly, neutralized. He wouldn't be shooting anymore grenades at my treads.

"'Keeping us steady' doesn't involve swerving all over God's Creation, you jackass!" Cajun growled, fumbling with the gunner's controls as he kept himself from getting thrown against the bulkhead.

"Well, I'm sorry; next time an Elite tries to knock out our treads, I'll just kill it with my _fucking mind!_" I shouted back, finally blowing my top. "No backtalking me until you waste that scarab!"

The main cannon fired again. "God _damn_ it!" Cajun swore. "Two hits! I hit the fucking knee _twice!_ What the hell do they make these things out of, fucking god metal?"

"One more should do it!" Apache encouraged him.

"It damn well better!"

I kept us going down the street. We had pretty much cleared the outskirts and were outside of Rustenpoort, but with the scarab still on our ass there really wasn't anywhere we could go.

Apache jerked yet another AP shell into the breech, giving Cajun a pat on the shoulder.

I flicked my gaze left and right, checking for banshees or ghosts. Nothing, so far. Even Covies weren't crazy enough to get in the way of a raging scarab. Looking out ahead, I knew that this road was a bust; it was going to be jammed full of automobile wrecks and debris from here all the way to the east coast. We had to go all-terrain from here on out.

"I'm taking us off the road, Cajun!" I warned my squadmate as I turned the dragon right off of the highway, sending us rumbling through the tall grass and shrubbery of the Rhodesian Savannah.

"_Uh-huh,_" Cajun murmured in reply, not taking his eyes off of the gunsights. "Jus' one…last…shot…_firing!_" he pulled the triggers. The cannon fired.

Judging by Cajun's subsequent cheering, it was safe to assume that he had scored a hit. I risked a look behind us by switching the driver viewscreen to the tail camera. Sure enough, that last shot had sheared right through one of the scarab's 'legs'. The Covenant behemoth sagged sideways, no longer having support on that one side. Its other legs tried to compensate, but it was too late; gravity was finishing Cajun's job.

The scarab went down as gracefully as something that size and shape could, slamming into the ground in a glorious, adrenaline-pumping explosion. Not so glorious or energy-pumping for the Covies inside the damn thing, I suppose…or even any other Covies in general…but this is _my_ story, not theirs.

"I, uh…scratch one, uh…scratch one scarab," Cajun reported, his voice still shaking with the adrenaline rush of taking one of those bad boys down. "I ain't never done nothin' like that before…"

"_You?_" Apache echoed in an amused tone, not bothering to point out the Louisianan's double-negative. "I believe it was a team effort, Cajun."

"Well yeah, no shit…" Cajun shook his head again, unsealing his helmet and letting it fall onto the floor. It rolled forward with the motion of the dragon, actually bumping into mine. Cajun's now-bushy horseshoe mustache was soaked with sweat. The red glow of the combat lighting system made the sweat on our faces shine like stars.

We really didn't encounter much more resistance out here. We were strafed by a few banshees, but Cajun discouraged them from returning. We also took out a ghost here and there, but we had put a good amount of distance between ourselves and the city during our flight from the scarab. After fifteen or twenty minutes of steady going, we found ourselves out in the middle of the savannah; nothing but tall grass and trees in every direction for as far as the eye could see.

I'm sure we would be able to see the pillars of smoke rising over Rustenpoort if it were daytime, but the darkness of the night obscured everything.

"We should find a place to power down for the day," Apache suggested. "We can fix the engines and the coolant system tomorrow…and besides, I don't much like the idea of traveling through Covie-held territory in broad daylight until we're 100-percent again."

"Agreed," I nodded.

"We should shoot for them hills up ahead," Cajun recommended. "We can hide the dragon in the shade and tall grass if any Covies come a-callin'."

"Sounds like a plan," Apache nodded.

"So…it's…its over?" Alex asked, finally opening his eyes. He had been curled up in the bow gunner's seat ever since the scarab had hit us, hugging his knees to his chest. Only now was he starting to open up.

Cajun gave a harsh bark of laughter at the five-year-old's question. "Not even close, kid. Not even close."


	46. III Chapter 46: Twiddling Our Thumbs

Chapter Forty-Six: Twiddling Our Thumbs

**February 17, 2542 (Military Calendar) \  
Salamis II, Fidus Alpha System**

"Why do they call you Scar?"

"I'm sorry?" I regarded the five-year-old boy who had just asked me the sudden question, interrupting my rest. I had been sacked out on top of the dragon, lying in the broad afternoon sunlight. Cajun was under the dragon, tinkering with the engine and the coolant systems, and Apache was on watch, on top of the rocky knoll which we had parked under.

"They call you Scar. Why?" Alex repeated himself.

I raised an eyebrow, propping my head up on an elbow. "It's a callsign. Something we use over the COM instead of our real names."

The boy rolled his eyes. "I know that. But the guy who says bad words told me he got his nickname because he's from a region with the same name; he has it for a reason. So why did you get Scar for yours?"

"You really want to know?"

The kid nodded.

I unsealed my helmet and pulled it off, setting it down beside me. "Right here," I trailed a finger down the left side of my face, tracing the scar that stretched from my hairline, across my eye, and down to my chin.

The boy's eyes widened and his mouth hung open a little. Maybe a bit of an overreaction...but how many grisly injuries did five-year-olds commonly see? This one wasn't all that bad compared to some of the crap you'd find in a triage. Nevertheless... "How'd you get something like that?"

I was silent for a few seconds. How I got my scar wasn't a story I told very often...but then again, this kid was probably the first to actually _ask _about it. Asking veterans how they got their scars was never the best idea. "It was back on Verus III, one of the…" I hesitated, stopping myself from telling a lengthy story about the _when_ and focused on the _what_. "I was on another world…much like this one, only there were a lot more trees and it was colder. I was…running away."

Alex made a face. "Running away? You guys?"

"_Mm-hm,_" I grunted. "What, that surprises you?"

The boy nodded. "You guys are supposed to be invincible! The TV always shows people like you with guns killing aliens everywhere!"

Recruitment advertisements, no doubt. I muttered something unpleasant under my breath at the thought. On the other hand, I really had to give credit to ONI Section II, which specialized in propaganda. They, through their skills at manipulating the media, had actually managed to convince the colonies that the war was going reasonably well.

Most colonists never really found out how truly dangerous the Covenant were until the plasma actually started raining down on their homes. Hooray for wakeup calls, eh?

"I wouldn't believe everything you see on TV," I advised the kid. "You saw what those aliens did to your home…they can do that as easily as you put on your clothes in the morning. They have weapons that can melt right through the toughest of metals…warriors that are faster, stronger, and several times more deadly than we could ever be...and we have to fight them."

Alex said nothing, now. He was intent on listening.

"So when I say I was running away, don't be too shocked. We run away a lot more often than you think; the key to running away from the aliens is to make them pay dearly for following you," I cleared my throat and got back on track. "We were running away, when some of the Covies—the _aliens_ attacked us. I got into a fight with an Elite—one of those tall aliens with the weird mouths."

I skimmed over the fact that it hadn't been a real fight. That Elite Major with the missing mandible had beaten me into next year; all I had done during that fight was try my best to evade and dodge. I then recounted how that Elite had nearly skewered my face with its energy blade, instead leaving me with my little mark.

"It didn't kill you?" the boy asked.

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes; no _shit_ it didn't kill me. Do I look like a ghost?

"No, it spared my life," I confirmed the boy's question. The image of that Elite Major lowering its energy sword instead of stabbing me with it flashed through my mind. That had always been one of the main things that had gnawed at the edges of my consciousness over the years; the fact that I was alive only because an Elite allowed it. It didn't feel right.

But I had shoved those memories in a dark corner of my mind; they didn't bother me all that much, anymore.

"So…if you last long enough against them, they let you go?"

That earned a cynical snort from me. "Not at all. Most Elites would kill you without a second thought…I'm sure you know that all too well. I was lucky enough to meet an exception that day."

The boy nodded slowly. "I'll remember that."

I glanced at the kid from the corner of my eye again. He no longer seemed angry, or even _upset_. All I could see was a coolness—or maybe it was an emptiness—in him…he sounded more like an old man than some of the people I've fought alongside in the past. I suppose seeing your family slaughtered in front of you can do that to a person…but, still…it was pretty unnerving.

This kid would definitely enlist when he grew old enough. I couldn't picture him settling down in some backwater colony to live a life of solitude. No…he wanted revenge. And if he lived long enough to get past a UNSC Army or Marine Corps recruiter, he would get it.

There are several different types of anger, but the two most basic forms are the two most apparent variants: hot anger and cold anger. The difference between the two is that hot anger controls you, but _you_ control cold anger. Hot anger fizzles out after a few good days or even a few weeks or months, but cold anger can last a lifetime. And _that's_ what I realized I was seeing in this kid; ice-cold hatred. I've seen hatred in many of my former comrades, but it was a general hatred of the Covenant; a hatred of everything they were doing to Humanity. Some had more of it than others; the ones who had lost loved ones in battle, or had lost their homeworlds, for example.

But there were a select few whose hatred burned the hottest—or rather, the _coldest,_ if that makes sense. They were the ones for whom this war was personal. They were most commonly lone—or _nearly_ lone—survivors of destroyed units, or war orphans who grew up and enlisted in the military. Sophie Devereux had been one, my oldest friend Dempsey another. Other survivors of the original Harvest Militia had been others. They were some of the fiercest fighters I had ever met.

"_Okay,_ why don't we talk about something else?" I started to say, but thankfully Cajun pulled me off the hook.

"Hey, Scar!" the Louisianan called up from his spot under the dragon. "Get yer ass down here an' have a look-see at the coolant system! I think I got it fixed."

I sat all the way up and slid down the side of the dragon, crawling under the space in between the treads. "Alright, let's see it," I said to my squadmate.

Cajun handed me the light and I took a look. One look was all I needed; I knew that it was going to be fine—Cajun had yet to fail us when it came to engine repairs—but still…without our usual supplies, my squadmate had to resort to some…unorthodox methods.

"Duct tape? Are you serious?" I asked as I observed Cajun's handiwork on the coolant system.

"Do I look like a goddamn mechanic to you?" the Louisianan countered. "An' besides; we don' have the materials needed to completely fix the damned thing. Duct tape'll have ta do."

I gave a shrug, saying, "Well, you haven't steered us wrong, yet… But duct tape really doesn't inspire much confidence."

Cajun, in his usual fashion, told me exactly where I could stick my confidence as we closed up the engine panels and crawled out.

"_Banshee, coming in for a pass,_" Apache warned us suddenly.

"Down!" Cajun barked.

We hit the dirt, disappearing into the tall grass. A few seconds later, a lone Covie flier screamed overhead, heading back in the direction of Rustenpoort. I watched it go, observing the twin vapor trails left behind by its wing-mounted thrusters. It didn't turn back or show any signs of altering its course, so it obviously hadn't seen us.

"I don't like this…" I muttered. "It's only a matter of time before one of those bastards goes and spots us."

Cajun gave a low grunt of agreement. "Helljumpers ain't meant ta be stationary. Movin' faster than light 's s'posed ta be our job."

With the repairs to the dragon complete, we had nothing to do except twiddle our thumbs until the sun went down. I sat on top of the rocky knoll, back against a tree, and watched the fiery celestial orb sink down into the west, casting the savannah in ever-lengthening shadows. They mingled with the rich golden expanses of the tall grass in a way that shouldn't have looked very attractive...but somehow _did_.

A pair of creatures that looked similar to the lions of Earth bounded across the plains, no doubt returning to their pride for the night. I watched them go and felt a small measure of pity for them. They probably wouldn't live to see another month. This war had to be a hell of a lot worse for the fauna of all those glassed UNSC colonies; we Humans were getting whipped, sure, but at least we could fight back, and we had other planets to fall back to; for now, at least. Creatures like those Salamis lions could not. Plasma would rain down and burn them to ashes, and they wouldn't even know why.

A dark chuckle rose from my throat. I had fought the Covies for all these years, witnessed all the horrors of this war, survived against all the odds…and here I was worrying about a bunch of goddamn animals. Dempsey would have slapped me if he could have heard those thoughts.

_Snap out of it, Alley_.

A soft, drawling melody of twangy music drifted up to the top of the knoll. I stood up and peered down the slopes. Sure enough, I saw Cajun leaning against the dragon, a glinting harmonica cupped in his hands.

I cast one last glance up to the heavens, then slid my way down the knoll and joined my squadmate, crouching down opposite him. "You had that the whole time?" I gestured at the small silver instrument.

"_Mm-hm,_" the Louisianan grunted, not pausing in his music. "Been _playin'_ it the whole time, too; you jus' weren't listenin'."

The sun finally set all the way and twilight settled in. Apache climbed into the dragon and started to power up the tank's systems. Once things had been sufficiently warmed up, he gave us a quiet whistle, gesturing for us to join him inside.

Alex was asleep in the bow gunner's seat, and I sat down quietly in the driver's seat so as not to wake him.

"I have some more good news," Apache announced. "I know it would have been infinitely more helpful yesterday, but the main cannon's loading system has been fixed. I do not know what you were doing to this machine's inner circuits, Cajun, but you did _something_ right," the Native American chuckled as he sat down in the commander's seat, which was situated in the center of the dragon's interior, behind the driver's niche and in front of the gunnery.

"Accidentally fixin' a vital system of the machine that's gonna keep our asses alive…" Cajun hummed to himself. "Virgin can eat his goddamn heart out."

"If he's still alive," I muttered.

"No one likes a killjoy, Scar," Cajun scolded me. "Shut yer trap an' drive."

"Where're we headed?" I asked. "East?"

"No," Apache shook his head. "North. While you were up on the knoll, the dragon's COM system intercepted a partial transmission from UNSC forces east of here. We had thought the system was fried from the beating we took in Rustenpoort…but it seems the damage was not as severe as it looked."

My viewscreen appeared in a wash of static, but quickly resolved into an infrared-enhanced image of the savannah outside.

"Point is, we need ta get atop o' one-a them there mountains," Cajun stepped forward and leaned over my shoulder, pointing at the viewscreen, specifically at distant mountaintops lining the northern horizon. "That way, we can bounce our signal off a satellite an' contact our boys."

I frowned as I hit the ignition, pausing as the dragon's engine rumbled to life. "Um…wouldn't the Covenant hear it, too?"

Apache gave a silent nod.

"Hey, it's our best shot," Cajun shrugged, turning and heading back to his post at the main cannon. "We barely got outta Rustenpoort in one piece, an' I mean _barely_. We wouldn't last a goddamn minute against frontline Covenant forces. Try dodgin' squads of a dozen banshees every two minutes…they'd zero in on a lone tank like ours like bees to honey."

"Alright, alright, I'm convinced," I waved them off as I started moving us forward across the plains, away from the rocky knoll. "I don't like it, but I'm convinced."

I set my attention on those distant peaks to the north. There weren't any roads up that way, so I was going to have to play it by ear in terms of actually _getting_ there. But once we got high enough in those mountains…maybe we'd have to walk, but once we got high enough…

"The hell's so funny, Scar?" Cajun grunted, and I noticed that I had been chuckling.

"Wha…? Oh, nothing," I answered reflexively. Another chuckle then escaped, and I decided to speak my mind. "Well… I mean, I spent two months on Verus III, and before that three months on Jericho VII; fuck, I even survived five _years_ in the mud on Harvest. Now, I spend a single _day_ on this planet, _one day,_ and I already can't wait to get the hell off it."

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_To Halcyon: Normally I don't reply to reviews in-story, but I can't send you a PM, so this'll have to do. I see what you're trying to say about the vehicle names, but I don't agree with you when you say they are proper nouns and need to be capitalized. Take warthog for example; 'warthog' is basically a synonym for 'jeep'. You would capitalize M12 LRV, its proper name, but 'warthog' is a common noun referring to _ALL_ M12 LRVs. Following that same logic, you would capitalize Type-25 Assault Gun Carriage, but _not_ wraith. You would capitalize__ BR55, but _not_ battle rifle. You would capitalize Forward Unto Dawn, but _not_ frigate. You see what I mean?_

_Not trying to talk down to you, but I don't want you to think I'm not considering your words, either, because I have. I actually had to think about this for a little while before coming to this conclusion._

_Thanks for the input, though!_

_-TheAmateur_


	47. III Chapter 47: Recovery

Chapter Forty-Seven: Recovery

**February 18, 2542 (Military Calendar) \  
Salamis II, Fidus Alpha System**

Cajun was playing some sort of old-timey tune on his harmonica as we rumbled up the slopes of the mountain. I didn't recognize the song—if it even _was_ a song—but it was that kind of fast-paced, twangy music that was commonplace in Cajun's home region. Because we didn't have any Covies firing away at our asses at the moment, he was free to play as much as he wanted.

We had been on the move since dusk last night, heading north towards the Wiertenn Mountains at our full speed. According to the GPS, we were currently on our way up the southern face of Mount Ubunte. There had been other mountains we passed by, but Ubunte was the first one we had come across that didn't have sheer rock faces and treacherous terrain.

The slopes of Ubunte were relatively gradual all the way to the treeline, where there was a steep ridge that went all the way to the top. The dragon wouldn't be able to go up that ridge easily, but it could probably do it if needed. Still, I'd rather avoid that.

The kid had been quiet for most of the trip. Still processing the shock of yesterday, no doubt. He had gone from furious to talkative, and now to sullenly quiet. I decided not to talk to him; he needed his space.

"Oh, this is the life!" Cajun grinned, resting his feet on the controls of the main cannon. "Why didn't I ever join an armored regiment?"

I couldn't really agree with my squadmate. Yes, it was a bit of a relief to not be walking the whole way to our destination, but I was not a big fan of tanks. Sure, back in my force recon days, I loved them to death when they showed up to help the infantry…but I wasn't a big fan of being _in_ them.

Yes, infantry could die a lot easier than a tank…but when we got hit, it wasn't a guarantee that we would die; we would most likely get wounded, spend a few weeks in a hospital station, then get right back to it. When you were in a tank, though…if you got hit, you got _hit_.

It was sometime past midnight when Apache was jolted awake by the sound of the COM squawking. "Hey…hey, I'm getting something," the Native American informed us. "The signal is starting to come through."

I glanced further on up the slope of Mount Ubunte, and saw that we still had a little ways to go before we would hit the ridge running up the last few thousand feet to the summit. "I'll stop us once we hit the treeline," I said. "The signal should be stronger up there."

We proceeded in silence. I frequently checked the dragon's external sensors to see if there were any Covies passing by overhead, but these skies were clear. If they had been patrolling for us before, they must have stopped, because I didn't detect any plasma signatures.

It took us another half-hour or so to reach the treeline. Up ahead, the rocky ridge rose up into the night, devoid of all trees and plantlife. I brought the dragon rumbling to a halt and killed the engine. We now sit in the near-silence of the dragon's interior, the only noise being the soft hum of the electronics.

"Alright, Apache. Do your thing," I nodded to our medic.

Apache activated the dragon's COM relay and started to ping out a general distress signal. Something like that would be picked up by any second-rate command post tuned into the e-band. There was probably a good amount of crap on the e-band already, but I was willing to bet that there weren't hundreds of signals coming from this far behind enemy lines. We would certainly spark some interest.

Unfortunately, as I had pointed out before, the signal wasn't going out on a secure channel; the Covies would be hearing the exact same thing a UNSC satellite in space would.

"Now what?" Cajun paused from playing his harmonica to ask his question.

Apache's answer was as short as Cajun's question. "We wait."

In response to that, Cajun pulled out his harmonica and started to eke out an impromptu tune. A small smile crept over my face as I pictured myself with a small guitar and Apache with one of those wooden pipes; all three of us playing in a little mock-band.

"You play the pipe, Apache?" I asked absent-mindedly.

Apache turned towards me, silently arching an inquisitive eyebrow. _What?_

"Never mind…" I waved him off, settling for quietly drumming my fingers on the console in rhythm with Cajun's tunes.

Alex was roused from his slumber by the twangy southern tones coming from Cajun's harmonica. He cracked open his eyes, yawning and stretching the kinks out of his cramped muscles. He turned his icy blue gaze over to me and asked that timeless question: "Are we there yet?"

Cajun gave a sharp bark of laughter, temporarily ruining his tune. "That all ya have ta say?"

Alex tilted his head to the side a little, frowning at the Louisianan uncomprehendingly for a few seconds before saying, "You say too many mean things. And you smell really bad."

There was a beat of silence as Cajun's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Well, until you get some hair on those atom-sized specks you call-"

"Cajun?" I swiveled my seat all the way around to face the gunnery. "Are you seriously talking smack to a five-year-old?"

"He gonna give me lip, he better be ready to get some back…" Cajun grumbled, turning his attention back to his harmonica.

I shook my head slowly, turning back to my console. I wasn't all that surprised, though; out of all of us, Cajun _would_ be the one to start trash-talking a kid to save his own face. I love the man dearly, and he's an irreplaceable asset on the battlefield…but he certainly has his flaws.

The four of us settled into a deep silence as we waited for someone to hear our distress signal. More than once, I spotted Covenant banshees and phantoms patrolling the skies around Mount Ubunte. That set me on edge, because I knew it was only a matter of time before they pinpointed our location.

Apache was the only one who didn't jump or give a surprised start when our COM system crackled to life and a voice issued forth saying, "…_oming in from the northeast. If you are hearing this, please acknowledge. This is Knife-eight-three, responding to unidentified distress beacon in grid sector Gold-16. If anyone is hearing this, please_-"

"Hello? Hello, you gettin' this?" Cajun pulled on his helmet, speaking into the helmet mic.

The reaction was almost immediate. The man on the other end of the COM could faintly be heard informing someone of a response over the e-band before he turned his attention back to its evacuees. "_Identify yourselves_."

Cajun and Apache traded glances with each other. Apache put on his own helmet and took over the conversation. "This is Archangel-One-Four," the Native American gave only his callsign, refraining from stating our unit or our mission. "We are on a priority-one mission under ONI command. We have a high-value individual with us who needs immediate evacuation. Our names are classified. I am transmitting authentication codes to your console…"

Apache continued to converse with the man and provided him with the necessary security clearance sequences which proved our claims to be working under ONI true without actually revealing our identities.

As it turned out, the man wasn't on his way to extract us. He was a longsword pilot who had been sent to investigate our signal. That made sense; we were pretty far behind enemy lines, and the higher-ups wouldn't immediately order a rescue mission until they knew for sure that there was still something left to rescue. Once the longsword pilot had authenticated our codes, he would arrange to have an extraction sent.

"_Alright…alright, you check out. HQ will be sending out an albatross transport to extract you,_" Knife-83 informed us.

"Wait, an albatross?" Cajun asked. "Why the extra baggage; why not just send in a pelican?"

"_You boys are commandeering an M1-Delta,_" the pilot explained. "_Dragons don't exactly grow on trees; they're expensive. HQ wants to try and save the tank, too_. _Your extraction will arrive in approximately fifteen minutes. Hang in there. Knife-eight-three out_."

"Okay," Cajun grumbled as the COM channel fizzled out. "Fifteen minutes. No problem. Ain't _nothin'_ that can go wrong in fifteen minutes."

"Don't tempt fate, Cajun," Apache warned the Louisianan.

I frowned, swinging my seat back around to face my squadmates. "Not to nitpick or anything…but why did you tell them we had a high-value individual with us?" I asked Apache. I was about to say _Codename Orion is dead,_ but I quickly remembered that his son was sitting in the seat next to mine, so I cut myself off.

"Simple," Apache replied. "ONI will care about pulling us out a lot more if we have a high-value individual with us."

I could see Apache's line of reasoning, and I decided to stop questioning it. I just wanted to get the hell off this planet, and if lying about having a high-value individual with us would help us achieve that goal…so be it.

My console beeped suddenly, and a red light started flashing. I turned back to the console and disabled the alert. "The dragon's sensors are picking up increased hostile signatures in this general-"

The ground rumbled suddenly and the frontal viewscreen was temporarily whited out by the nearby explosion of plasma. "I think we have company…" I punched the ignition while Cajun took his place at the controls of the main cannon.

I could spot three phantoms up in the sky, the purple glow about them making them stand out in the night like robbers at a cop convention.

"Take us down the mountain!" Apache ordered. "Make for the savannah!"

I could see the reasoning. Down in the gentle hills of the savannah, a UNSC tank could reign supreme over almost anything the Covies threw at it—naval vessels and the occasional scarab excluded, of course. The only reason we had come up this high to begin with was to get our distress signal noticed by our forces in the east.

Huge bolts of plasma started to rain down all over the slopes of Mount Ubunte, tearing house-sized craters in the ground as they made impact. That was full-blown plasma artillery fired from a distance; not the mortar-shot from their wraiths.

I didn't waste too much time wondering why the Covies were expending all this effort to take us down when they had a war to fight further east. Why the Covenant did what it did was one of life's greater mysteries.

As it turned out, our little scenic tour down the slopes of Mount Ubunte went rather uneventfully, aside from the trio of wraiths following us. Cajun shot down a handful of banshees and a lone phantom, as well, but the main threat to us had been that plasma bombardment.

I think other men would have called it many things that were the polar opposite of _uneventful_…but to tell you the truth, our flight from the small Covenant pursuit force was horribly pale in comparison to what we went through trying to get out of Rustenpoort. We didn't really run into any hairy situations until we made it out onto the open savannah, where another squadron of phantoms swooped in and dropped off more wraiths and ghosts.

"The wraiths I can dodge; take out those ghosts!" I ordered Cajun, who gave a grunt of acknowledgement as he peered through the gunsights.

Apache moved Alex back to the tank commander's seat and manned the bow machinegun. We now had three weapons firing at the Covies—the main cannon, the coaxial machinegun mounted right under the main cannon, and the ball-mounted frontal machinegun now being operated by Apache. Between them all, they could put a substantial amount of lead into the air.

I could see why the marines would risk sending an albatross heavy transport in order to try and recover this tank as well; it was pretty damn valuable.

The main cannon roared and a ghost firing plasma into our rear was blown into next year.

The COM finally crackled to life again and a new voice issued through; deeper than the last one, and with a light Arab accent. "_This is Hotel-Tango-six-four. Be advised, I'm coming in from the northeast. Keep my ass in the clear while you come aboard. Six-Four out._"

Cajun traded several shots with one of the pursuing wraiths. One of the plasma bolts actually crashed into our flank, earning a grimace from the Louisianan. "They may get the dragon back, but it's gonna need a new paint job…"

Cajun opened fire with the coaxial machinegun, directing the stream of lead into a clump of Covie assault vehicles. He focused his fire on another one of the ghosts even as the other vehicles scattered.

As Cajun concentrated on keeping the Covies suppressed, I angled the dragon to the right. A dark shape was descending from the sky in that direction, partially illuminated by the small flames of the retro thrusters lining its underbelly. It was one of the large, clunky albatross heavy dropships. They were similar in shape to pelicans, only without the extending wings on either side, and about twice the girth. The top section was where the pilots would steer the craft, while the entire bottom two-thirds of the ship was basically one large cargo bay.

As the heavy dropship came down almost to ground-level, the aft section of the cargo hold was slowly lowered down onto the ground, forming a good-sized loading platform. The albatross's forward cannons were ablaze, fending off the pair of phantoms which were beginning to open fire from above.

I swore under my breath as a whole score of new contacts registered on my console. I flicked my gaze skyward and confirmed those readings; three squadrons of banshee fliers were coming up from the southwest, heading right for the albatross.

But fate decided to throw a curveball. As I watched those banshees grow nearer and nearer, I felt completely helpless; there was no way we could stop them all. So you could imagine the surprise I felt when, one by one, the banshees started to get shot out of the sky. "The hell…?" I muttered, watching the burning husks of the Covie fliers fall to the earth.

Even before I was finished speaking, a whole wing of longsword fighters swooped out of the sky from behind us, cannons and missile launchers blazing. They engaged the banshees, which were completely blindsided by their sudden entrance into the fray.

"_That's_ why I said we had a high-value individual with us!" Apache hollered over the din.

"You're a smart lil' shit, Apache; I'll give ya that!" Cajun whooped.

As I moved the tank forward, Cajun took out one of the phantoms' plasma turrets, rendering it harmless against the albatross. The dragon was hit again in the side along the way. There was an explosion of sparks and one of the wall panels exploded outward, peppering the forward niche with small, but deadly shards of shrapnel.

Apache and I were protected by our armor. Our ODST armor wasn't much help against plasma and particle beams, but it held strong against debris and shrapnel; we got off without a scratch. Maybe a bruise here and there, but no broken skin.

I gave a nervous swallow as I traded a sidelong glance with Apache. If he hadn't manned the bow machinegun, the kid would've been shredded. The thought didn't seem to occur to Alex; the five-year-old's expression hadn't changed. He hadn't even spoken a word since our stop at the knoll east of Rustenpoort.

I gunned the engines, covering the final leg between us and that dropship. Plasma bolts were beginning to strike the sides of the dropship despite Cajun's attempts to keep it in the clear.

"_Let's hurry it up, out there!_" the albatross pilot urged us over the COM. "_I can't take anymore of this beating!_"

"Acknowledged," Apache responded. "We're doing our best."

The dragon rocked a tad bit as the treads gained purchase on the lowered platform that had been lowered out of the cargo bay, rumbling onto the metal floor.

Cajun continued to fire the main cannon at the attacking wraiths even as the loading platform was drawn back up into the cargo hold of the albatross. The heavy dropship was already rising up into the air before we were completely squared away.

The ground fell away and the loading platform was drawn all the way up into the cargo bay, sealing itself and becoming part of the floor. I killed the engines while Apache and Cajun powered down all of the other systems.

Alex spoke for the first time since the knoll. "Are we…are we safe?" he asked hesitantly, as if he were afraid to jinx us.

"You never can tell, kid," Cajun murmured. "You never can tell."

I popped the hatch above the commander's chair and hoisted myself out through the cupola, taking a deep breath of sweet, blessed air that wasn't from the stuffy interior of the dragon. No sooner had I stepped onto the top of the dragon that I found myself drawn into a painful, crushing bear-hug. Though I couldn't see who my tormentor was, I only knew of one person who was strong enough to hug a man that hard.

"_Ow!_ The ribs, Pyro! Watch the ribs," I croaked, giving the hulking Helljumper a good slap on the shoulder.

The heavy weapons specialist released me, taking a step back. "God _damn,_ Scar! Y'all had us thinkin' you were dead!"

I didn't reply immediately, in part because I was gasping for breath after that crusher of a hug. I don't think oxygen has ever tasted sweeter. "Dead, Pyro?" I echoed reproachfully. "How long have you known me?"

"Good point."

Cajun was the next one out of the dragon. He took one look at Pyro and, with a maniacal bout of laughter, charged into a bear-hug of his own. Unlike me, though, Cajun could withstand one of Pyro's crushers.

The Master Sergeant clapped me on the shoulder when I hopped off the tank. Celt and Virgin did likewise. We quickly traded short, summarized stories of what had transpired since our botched drop. Apparently, the rest of the squad had fallen onto the islands of the Dienn Archipelago, several kilometers off the eastern coast of South Transvaal. They had been saved only by a salvaged HEV pod's COM relay, which they had used to call for a dropship to pick them up.

"So how did all of you manage to survive crashing into the ocean?" I asked them.

Celt raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Are ye complainin', my friend?"

"Of course not-"

"Then shut the hell up and just be happy to be seein' us all in one feckin' piece!"

As Apache climbed out of the dragon, another familiar voice cut through the heated conversation. "Well, well, well…I thought I'd see you boys alive, again. We were all waiting for a signal from you."

Captain Delucci entered through the shaft that led up to the cockpit, walking slowly towards us. Though the spook rarely showed any form of excessive emotion, I could see the faint traces of a smile playing around his mouth. He was glad we were alive, one way or another.

"I'm afraid I was unable to send in the rest of the squad to join you, due to Rustenpoort airspace being a sea of anti-aircraft emplacements at the time," Delucci explained, "but I was fairly confident that the three of you would be able to get out alive. I trust that you were successful in your mission? Codename Orion and his family are with you?"

"No dice," Cajun shook his head. "Covies had completely _trashed_ Rustenpoort by the time we got there."

"Codename Orion was dead when we found him, along with most of his family," I told the Captain.

Delucci's faint smile vanished. However, one of his eyebrows arched in curiosity. "_Most_ of his family?" he asked.

Apache reached down into the hatch opening and hauled out Alex, setting him down on the top of the dragon. My squad all turned in unison, regarding the five-year-old with varying levels of curiosity.

"We found his youngest son at the target location," I explained, deciding to not mention the part where the kid had nearly blown my head off with a magnum. "No other survivors. The kid'll make one hell of a marine one day, though."

Delucci dismissed the rest of my squad and told Alex to stay on the tank. In private, he conversed with Cajun, Apache, and me, and we gave him a full report of what had happened from the moment of the orbital jump clusterfuck to the flight from Rustenpoort.

Captain Delucci paid close attention when we mentioned the kid's behavior during the whole ordeal; how he had conducted himself during the escape from Rustenpoort. "No crying?" the Captain asked. "Really?"

"Well, he beat the crap outta Scar when we found 'im," Cajun chuckled. "That wasn't exactly crying."

"_Tried,_" I argued. "He _tried_ to beat the crap out of me."

"He nearly shot your face off, then kicked you in the family jewels, Scar," Cajun shot back. "I'm pretty sure he won that little brush."

Captain Delucci looked at Alex with renewed interest. I wasn't sure what I was looking at in the Captain…sympathy for the kid's loss, sure…but there was something else. I knew that look from tacticians—they would get that look when they were in a shitty situation, but found a way to turn it into something positive. I have no idea how Delucci could turn _this_ into something positive, though, so I dismissed the feeling.

"Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all," Delucci dismissed us as well.

"Captain, sir," the three of us said in unison, saluting our handler before resting easy and moving off to join our squadmates.

"Oh, wait a moment; one last thing," Delucci turned back to us. "I believe you boys deserve some recognition for what you have accomplished here. Not many people would be able to survive what you lived through. So just give me a moment…" the Captain paused for around ten seconds or so, before saying, "…and…_there_. All done. Congratulations."

When all he got in response were confused stares, he told us to check our IFF transponders. As the Captain turned away and walked off towards the dragon, we complied, accessing our HUDs and calling up the squad personnel list. Sure enough, there were our names…but the ranks next to them had changed. Cajun was now a Corporal, Apache had become a Sergeant, and the rank insignia next to my name had gained a second rocker. That was the insignia of a Gunnery Sergeant.

I felt like going out and celebrating, but then I remembered that we were on a dropship behind enemy lines, so I just settled for a wide grin. I was wearing my helmet, so no one would see it. Silently, the three of us made our way back to the rest of our squad.

Delucci, on the other hand, approached the dragon, where Alex was still sitting on the top.

"Your father was a brave man," Delucci said to Alex, stepping forward and extending a hand. The boy cast Apache a quick glance. When the Native American gave an encouraging nod, the boy took Delucci's hand and allowed himself to be lowered to the floor. "He saved many, _many_ lives. I am very sorry you are going through such a loss; I truly am. If there was ever anything I could do…"

The Captain's voice trailed off, perhaps intentionally. The boy seized the opportunity. "I want to make them all pay," he declared. "Every one of them."

I saw the bare ghost of a smile return to Delucci's face. "Well, what if I were to offer you the chance to have your…" The Captain and Alex walked out of earshot all the way to the other end of the cargo bay. I could see them talking, but I couldn't hear what was being said. I shrugged, deciding not to trouble myself over the whole thing. Delucci was probably jus tplanting seeds early to get the kid to join up when he came of age…not that it was necessary. The kid was definitely going to enlist no matter what; that much was obvious.

I joined the fray of laughter and friendly violence that my squadmates had created. Two halves of a whole had just been reunited, and it was a sight to see. I knew that the first thing I was gonna do when we got shore leave—and I knew we would definitely get shore leave after a mission like this—was to find a bar with my squad and completely lose myself in a bottle of whiskey.

Hell; after today, we had earned all that and _more_.

* * *

**END OF SECTION III**


	48. IV Chapter 48: Initium Finis

**Section IV: Blood**

* * *

Chapter Forty-Eight: Initium Finis

**July 16, 2552 (Military Calendar, approximated) \  
Unknown Location, Slipspace**

Old man.

In the past, people have called me many names. Junior, Shiteface, Maggot, Sarge, Scar, Gunny...but the one I was getting the most of lately was _old man_. And the worst part was that I was okay with it. I _was_ an old man.

Had we not been fighting a war against genocidal aliens, I would have been discharged well over a decade ago. Still...when I had the chance to actually _think_ about this whole thing, I would realize that I've been fighting for nearly two-thirds of my life. War was all I really knew; it was in my blood, my flesh, my bones, my mind, my heart, and my soul. And probably my alcohol-riddled liver, too. I _am_ War.

Even so...every now and then, I find myself aching in places I've never ached before. I end up straining muscles I never knew I had. I've started to tire faster than used to. Many things I used to take for granted over a decade ago were beginning to nip at me every time I dropped into combat. However, these shortcomings were very minor. They were only big enough for me to notice their existence; they still posed no inhibition to my fighting ability. My marksmanship was better than ever.

If this war went on any longer, though...I'll probably end up getting killed or discharged because I'll be senile.

At this moment, I found myself in our main briefing room on Deck Thirteen of the _Breath of Winter;_ the UNSC cruiser my unit had transferred to after the _Kronos's Scythe_ was gutted by a Covenant energy projector beam during the fighting at Skopje.

My squad had been running black ops all over UNSC-held space for the past few years. None of us have died yet…somehow. Probably because our missions are unconventional warfare; sniping an occasional Prophet, taking out a high-ranking Elite, disabling Covenant communications or supply hubs, supporting regulars in small battles—what was so ironic about being part of ONI's black ops unit is that, though the missions we are sent on are higher risk and much more dangerous than a normal battle, they were easier to survive. We drop in, do our job, then get the hell out. We don't hang around in trenches for weeks on end.

Not to say that we've been skimping; far from it. If a team of regulars tried to complete one of our usual missions, they would get ground up and shat out by the Covies before they had the chance to blink. Regulars were at home in the trenches and foxholes…the thing was simply that their kind of warfare always had a higher body count.

And besides, my squad ended up having to fight on Paris IV, anyway. We supported infantry stationed there and held the Covenant attack force back for three weeks—long enough to get most of the civilians off-planet. That was a messy fight…not as bad as Verus III or Harvest, mind you, but it certainly wasn't a stroll through a meadow in the spring.

It was because of our extremely high success rate as a unit that we had managed to stay together for so long. Usually, squads were dissolved over time and distributed to other units…but then again, when the Covies started burning our planets, things changed in the military real quick. My squad wasn't the only veteran unit in the force.

Hell, even my old unit, the 9th Force Recon Battalion, was still alive and kicking—that speaks for itself. Now that servicemen and women were being allowed to remain in the armed forces until they practically keeled over from being senile, there were many more veteran units that had been in existence for many years.

In fact, I think the division that the 9th was attached to might have been stationed in one of the bases in the area…but even if they were, the chances of my making a visit to my old brothers and sisters-in-arms was very slim at best, so I put the thought out of my mind.

"Gunnery Sergeant Garris?" the sound of Captain Delucci's voice snapped me out of my deep thoughts. I looked around and saw the Captain at the head of the table to my left, raising an eyebrow at me. The rest of my squad sat around the round table, also looking in my direction, their expressions hidden by the reflective silver faceplates of their helmets.

Not for the first time, I was glad to be wearing my face-obscuring helmet as well.

"Sir?" I asked, already thinking of ways to get out of the hot water. Zoning out was a big _no-no_ during the Captain's briefings.

"Would you care to repeat what I just said?"

"Er..." I quickly raced back through what I remembered the Captain saying during my little vacation inside my mind. I remembered bits and pieces; some part of me had still been listening to what was being said. It was all a matter putting those pieces and fragments together into something workable. "We are to provide part of the security for Rear Admiral Rich's meeting of ONI Covert Ops brass."

Captain Delucci arched an eyebrow as he regarded me, clearly a tad bit surprised that I was able to put _that_ much of an answer together. I knew that he could have me by the balls if he wanted to…but thankfully, he wasn't as highly-strung as many other members of the ONI brass. My squad was basically a combination of eccentricities—eccentricities which Delucci had learned to deal with a long time ago.

"That is correct, Scar," Delucci reverted back to calling me by my squad callsign. A wry ghost of a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he went on. "I'm glad you were listening. Compared to the hells I've sent you men into these past couple years, this assignment should be a welcome change of pace. You will accompany me to Admiral Rich's meeting and provide security at the doors. You boys are one of six squads which were specifically requested by the top brass to be the ones to lock the Olympic Tower down while the meeting is in session."

"May I ask why they want an entire section of a building locked down just for a meeting?" Virgin ventured. "That seems a little excessive, even for ONI."

Captain Delucci turned his impassive gaze to our technical specialist. "We will be discussing extremely…_sensitive_ material. Material we wouldn't exactly want anyone to catch wind of. And locking down the building is only for show; the real meeting will be taking place underground. We would never discuss such material in an open room."

Virgin gave a nod in reply, seeing the logic in Delucci's explanation.

"And I really should not have told you any of that. Anyone blabs, then I send you boys back to the front in nothing but your skivvies. If you keep quiet and do your job well…then you'll have a week of R&R before you join the rest of the 7th Shock Troops Battalion in the Aszod Province."

That earned a round of murmurs and surprised grunts.

"The entire 7th in one place?" the Master Sergeant remarked. "That's never happened, before."

"We've lost contact with Sigma Octanus IV. Your entire battalion is being sent in with two Expeditionary Forces to reinforce the Army forces stationed around Côte d'Azur, Saint Claire, and Nouveau Redon."

"Sigma Octanus IV…" Pyro murmured in a pensive tone, contemplating the pros and cons of being sent to such a place. "That's where all the Frenchies live, ain't it?"

"Hey, I hear it ain't so bad there," Cajun shrugged. "Got lotsa forest 'n trees, 'n shit...an' it's got nice, warm weather…"

"When it's not havin' one of its month-long monsoons," Celt muttered.

"Heh…rain…" Virgin—I really don't know why we still call him Virgin—chuckled quietly to himself. "I hate rain…"

Captain Delucci cleared his throat loudly, giving us a quick glare. That was more than enough to shut us up. "Discussion of this topic is closed. In fact, it has never been opened. I tell you this only because I believe it is better that you are at least partially informed as to what is expected of you in the near future. Now, as for the specifics of what you will have to do when you arrive at the Olympic Tower…"

The Captain went on to describe what we would be doing at the site of the ONI conclave. Somewhere towards the beginning of the rest of the briefing, the room vibrated ever so slightly, and there was a familiar omnipresent rushing sound. It was a difficult sound to describe…it was similar what it sounded like when a blast goes off next to your ear, and then your hearing slowly returns.

It was the sound a ship always made when it entered or dropped out of slipspace. We had arrived in-system, so we had probably an hour or so before we reached our destination.

Delucci continued to outline our assignment. All in all, there really wasn't much to say. The only reason the Captain had to go through the whole thing in great detail was because it was high-ranking ONI brass that we were dealing with. Had it been a combat op, he would have given us the where, the what, and sometimes the why—the rest, we were able to handle on our own. But when top brass were involved…

Finally, Delucci finished the briefing and rose from his chair. "And that just about covers it… This is not a combat op, so there will be no need to go in feet-first. We'll go down by pelican directly to the Olympic Tower. Report to the armory and get your weapons; I'll see you in Hangar Bay One in half an hour. Dismissed."

"_Sir,_" all seven of us rose to our feet as well, saluting the Captain in unison. When he returned the salute, we dropped our hands and filed out of the briefing room.

The _Breath of Winter_ was larger than the _Kronos's Scythe_. It was a marathon-class cruiser, just like the _Kronos,_ but it was still of a heavier tonnage. It was probably made more recently; recent ships had thicker armor and heavier MAC cannons. Heavier armor still didn't do much to stop plasma torpedoes…but what else could the shipyards do? Until we got energy shielding technology, _nothing_ would stop plasma torpedoes.

I picked up my sniper rifle and sidearm at the armory before heading into the nearest lift. The descent to the lower decks of the _Winter_ took about a minute.

"Well, nothing like playing guard for a day, I suppose," Virgin said as we stepped out of the lift and into the corridor.

"Waste of our talents, says I," Celt sighed. "Either send us ta kill split-chin bastards, or let us go an' relax for R don't be usin' us for bloody rent-a-cop detail…"

"Hey, I don' know about you, but I'm jus' glad to get a little break is all," Pyro shrugged, adjusting the shotgun he had attached to his armor's weapons strip.

Captain Delucci was waiting for us in the hangar bay, just as he had said earlier. "Step aboard," he gestured for us to climb into the troop bay of the pelican that he was standing next to. As we traversed the vast, vehicle-filled space that was the _Winter's_ hangar bay towards Delucci's pelican, the dropship's engines fired up and it hovered several feet off the ground.

The Master Sergeant stood to the side and allowed the rest of us to climb into the troop bay before he boarded the dropship himself. Captain Delucci entered the bay last. He input a command into the console on the bulkhead and the blood tray rose up and connected with the ceiling, sealing the aft deployment opening—making the dropship spaceworthy.

There was a slight lurch as the pilot engaged the thrusters, sending us forward. We maneuvered through the rows of dropships and tanks until we reached an airlock unit. After exchanging clearance codes with the officer on watch, the external doors were opened and the pelican shot forward into space.

I didn't sit down on the troop benches. Instead, I stood in the aisle, holding onto a grip that hung from the ceiling. I wanted to watch through the cockpit viewscreen as we approached the planet below. Gradually, the pitch black of outer space lightened to a navy blue—I noticed this subtle change in color every time I went in feet-first through an atmosphere, and I noticed it here as well.

The dropship rattled and shook a tad bit as we punched through the friction and heat of reentry. There weren't any flames licking at the edges of the dropship, though. Probably because it wasn't coming in as fast or at as sharp of an angle as an HEV pod would during a jump.

It wasn't long before we were dropping through a cloud bank. The blank mass of white broke suddenly, revealing a wide, green, mountainous expanse of land. Nestled in a vast caldera-like gap in the mountains was a large urban sprawl. At this altitude, it just looked like a large, hazy mass of gray. However, as we got closer and closer to the ground, the shapes of individual buildings, structures, houses, streets, monorails, and shuttlecraft lanes became apparent. The bustling city of New Alexandria was certainly a sight to behold from above.

We dropped into a secluded area north of the center of town—a good-sized compound of tall buildings and low-lying, flat structures; all surrounded by a wide area of open grounds, an electrified wall, and a contingent of M1-Delta heavy battle tanks. FLEETCOM HQ was the name of the whole place—this was the central nervous system of the entire UNSC Navy; probably the second most important site in the UNSC, second only to the HIGHCOM site in Australia on Earth.

We lighted on a landing pad on the upper tiers of a tall, angular, silver building. I could easily see the all-seeing eye symbol of ONI, complete with their motto—_Semper Vigilans_—emblazoned on the sides of the building. I knew at once that it was the Olympic Building—the central headquarters for the top brass of the Office of Naval Intelligence. Not many soldiers ever got the opportunity to even _look_ at it, let alone go _inside_ it as we were about to do.

Delucci unsealed the troop bay. The ramp swung down towards the ground, allowing the Captain to step down onto the landing pad. A dry, warm breeze whistled its way into the dropship's interior. At least it wasn't winter in this neck of the woods.

"Gentlemen," Captain Delucci motioned for us to follow him off the landing pad and into the building. "Welcome to Reach."


	49. IV Chapter 49: Second Best

Chapter Forty-Nine: Second Best

**July 18, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

When the Captain had told us we'd be sealing off part of the Olympic Tower, it hadn't seemed so bad. Compared to what we've been through in the past, it _wasn't_ so bad…but still. The Captain failed to mention that we would be on lockdown duty for close to thirty-six hours.

There were always four squads on duty with the remaining two on break. Every four hours, those two squads would relieve another two squads. All six squads would rotate every twelve hours.

I don't think it would have been so bad if we were actually guarding _something_. We had locked down an entire section of the Olympic Tower for a meeting between higher-ups that was actually taking place far underground. We were here for an illusion…and that just didn't feel like something worth standing watch eight hours at a time for.

"And what makes ye say that?" Celt was asking Cheyenne, an older Helljumper from one of the other squads that was pulling lockdown duty alongside us. He and a few of his buddies had been chatting about something big going on up in FLEETCOM HQ, and we couldn't help but overhear.

"Whenever you hear news, it's always from the mouth of someone else, you understand," Cheyenne explained. "So you have to take it with a grain of salt, you know? But anyway, Lieutenant Commander Angiers, our handler, told us that all of our forces in this entire sector are apparently being recalled to the Epsilon Eridani System—_here_."

"That be a lot o' ships…" Celt murmured.

"Upwards of a hundred-fifty," Cheyenne agreed. "A tad bit on the large end of the spectrum, wouldn't you say?"

"It makes no sense," I frowned, recalling something Delucci had mentioned during our last briefing. "Our handler told us something about FLEETCOM HQ losing contact with the Sigma Octanus System. We all know what lost contact means…so why—if the Covies are attacking Sigma Octanus IV—is the mobilization centered here, at Reach?"

"Hell if I know…" Pisces, one of Cheyenne's squadmates, gave an impassive shrug. "Since when did we ever know why the spooks do the things they do?"

Celt smirked at that. "Good point."

"Alright, cut the chatter," the Master Sergeant Rhodes, the leader of Cheyenne's squad, growled. "I think I hear a lift coming up."

Celt and I quickly returned to our posts with our squad while Cheyenne and company hurried back to their own.

Rhodes was right; I could hear the soft, sliding noise of an ascending lift as well. No sooner had I stood up straight at attention when the elevator doors dinged and slid apart.

Captain Delucci emerged from a lift. He looked odd in the crisp, white naval dress uniform. In fact, I think this was the first time I've ever seen him wear one. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time _I've_ worn a dress uniform.

Delucci was with three other men. One of the older men was none other than Captain Gibson, the overall head of ONI Black Ops. There was a tall, thin, pale man who wore the two-and-a-half stripes of a Lieutenant Commander. He was most likely Lieutenant Commander Angiers, the ONI handler of Cheyenne's squad, based on the way he and the other squad of Helljumpers interacted. The last man I didn't know. He was a shorter, red-haired Lieutenant—nothing special about him.

"Sir, nothing to report topside," our Master Sergeant said to Delucci as the Captain approached our two squads.

"Didn't think there would be," Captain Delucci nodded. "Make sure all your gear is in order; we're going to Camp Hathcock."

"Camp Hathcock, sir?" Virgin couldn't help but ask. He wasn't the only one who was surprised; this was turning out to be one hell of a week. First, going to Reach—which was a rarity for a unit like ours—then to the Olympic Tower…and now Camp Hathcock.

"Yes, Camp Hathcock," Delucci repeated himself. His tone was stern and clipped enough to efficiently insinuate that he was not in the mood for our usual chatter. And rightly so. "Fall out."

The officers led us outside back onto the external tier overlooking the rest of the building and compound. The other five squads of Helljumpers—including Rhodes's squad—who had been on lockdown detail with us joined us outside, where a pelican and three falcons were waiting.

The officers all climbed aboard the pelican, along with my squad and Rhodes's. The other Helljumpers climbed aboard the trio of falcons. I suppose having your squad's handler as one of the ranking members of the ONI conclave got us first-class seats.

"I've heard nothing but good things about you men," Captain Gibson said to us after the pelican lifted off and got underway, settling into a steady speed as we soared above the clouds.

This was the first time I had ever seen Gibson in the flesh. Rear Admiral Rich commanded ONI Covert Ops—which translated to basically every field operation, besides those of the Spartans. Captain Gibson was the field officer in charge of the Black Ops division, which was the hands-on, messy section of Covert Ops. Rear Admiral Rich was the spearman, Captain Gibson was the spear.

Nominally, all ODSTs belonged to the 105th Marine Expeditionary Unit, but we weren't embedded within conventional UNSC forces. We would, on occasion, conduct joint operations with marines or Army troopers, but we weren't bred for conventional warfare. While we were subordinate to our respective battalions, we rarely fought in anything larger than our individual squads. So when we learned that the entire 7th was being mobilized in the Aszod Province, you could understand our surprise.

"You're sitting with the best, sir," Captain Delucci said in response to Gibson's earlier statement, gesturing to both squads sitting in the troop bay.

"I was a Helljumper before I joined ONI," Gibson mused. "We were always the best…in many ways, I believe we still are. I'll level with you; ever since Halsey's toy soldiers went public, we puny little human commandoes suddenly became second-rate leftovers in the eyes of HIGHCOM, and I don't appreciate that one damn bit."

There were grumblings of agreement from many of the Helljumpers present in the troop bay. I didn't share in the bitter, negative view most ODSTs had of the Spartans—I don't have to explain why, because I've already done so about a thousand times. However, just because I didn't hate them didn't mean I loved them. I _didn't_ appreciate how much HIGHCOM liked to play favorites with the Spartans at our expense. After all, Helljumpers have been around a lot longer. We have shed much more blood than the Spartans ever had, and people seem to repay us by patting us on the head and saying, "_Oh, thanks for everything, but I we think the shiny new supersoldiers could do this mission better_."

Maybe that's exaggerating, a little bit. ODSTs were still among the most revered and respected members of the armed forces, and we still had our fair share of impossible missions we were expected to carry out…

I suppose it's all a matter of wounded pride. We've been the top dogs for so long; it's like a slap in the face to suddenly have someone else—in this case, Spartans—become the best. Almost like an old beast deposed by an upstart cub with genetic augmentations.

But, once again, I digress.

"Lieutenant Haverson, I trust the intel package is ready for presentation to Admiral Whitcomb?" Captain Gibson asked the red-haired Lieutenant.

The ONI Lieutenant gave a short nod, but there was a flicker of doubt in the gesture. "Do you really think it's necessary to bring Whitcomb into this? It's probably nothing. We could send a few agents to Visegrad and find out for ourselves that it's nothing. I'd even go myself."

Lieutenant Commander Angiers arched an eyebrow at that. "Really? You'd go to Visegrad yourself and figure this whole thing out? You can speak Hungarian, Lieutenant?"

Haverson's mouth hardened into a thin line. "No, sir."

"I thought not. And it's _because_ it's probably nothing that we are informing Admiral Whitcomb," Captain Gibson continued. "If we thought something…sensitive…was going on, we would handle it quietly."

"And where do _we_ factor into all this?" Master Sergeant Rhodes spoke up.

Delucci and Gibson traded a discreet glance with each other before Gibson gave a slight nod to his subordinate.

"There have been reports of disappearances in the Visegrad Province," Captain Delucci told us. "And not your usual missing child or senior citizen, as one would expect from a remote farming region like that place. Entire families have been vanishing for nearly four days, now. Every six hours, we get updated reports from the outpost in that sector, and many of them contain names of more missing civilians."

"Insurrectionists?" Apache guessed.

Captain Gibson gave a grim nod. "That's what we're thinking. They're a shadow of what they used to be before Harvest happened in '25…but even so; I never thought they would have ever come to Reach, of all places."

"Army troopers have already been dispatched to restore the peace," Angiers informed us. "But we'll eventually be sending your squads in with translators who are fluent in Hungarian, so you can converse with the local populace. We want you to find out if there are Insurrectionists in that area; and if there are…well, you know what to do if there are."

I think the stars must have been in some sort of special alignment, because I've never heard so many straight answers come from an ONI spook's mouth until today.

I had thought we would be dispatched to Visegrad almost immediately. Based on how the officers had been talking about sending us out there, I had kept all my gear packed and ready to move. But after landing at Camp Hathcock—the military reservation deep in the Highland Mountains reserved for top brass, VIPs, and heads of state—we were allowed to set up quarters in one of the barracks facilities. All six of our squads were able to fit in one of the spacious buildings. All of us were ready to move back out in a moment's notice, but our orders never came.

We slept through the night somewhat hesitantly, expecting to be sent to the pelicans before dawn tomorrow…but again, the orders never came. So we got up, ate breakfast, returned to the barracks, and slept some more. That was one of the first things we had learned on the battlefield: a soldier can never get too much sleep.

And the cycle continued. We would sleep, wake up for meals, spend some time on the weapons range until it was dark out, then sleep until the next morning. When you get a solid routine down, time just seems to slip by. It hadn't felt like we were at Camp Hathcock for very long until the Master Sergeant was suddenly summoned to a squad leaders' meeting with Captain Gibson. I realized soon after the Master Sergeant left that we had been sitting here for five days, and we still hadn't been sent to investigate the disappearances in Visegrad.

When the Master Sergeant returned with Rhodes, Dupont, and the other squad leaders, we all found out why.

"Remember those Army troopers who were sent into Visegrad to find out what the hell was going on?" the Master Sergeant asked us. When all he received in reply were nodding heads and affirming grunts, he went on. "Well, we lost contact with them earlier today. And to add icing on top of the cake, the Visegrad Relay Outpost has also gone dark. Originally, Admiral Whitcomb was going to send us in to investigate."

Cajun pursed his lips, the ends of his horseshoe mustache bristling a tad bit. "_Originally?_" he echoed, obviously not liking where this whole conversation was headed.

The Master Sergeant gave a thin, mirthless smile. "Yes, _originally_. Instead, he turned it over to Colonel Holland from Army Special Ops, and _he's_ decided to send in-" the Master Sergeant grimaced, as if the words themselves were sour, "a team of Spartans. They leave first thing tomorrow morning. We're not going to Visegrad, boys."

As the other squad leaders broke the news to their respective units, the barracks was filled with the not so pleasant language of twenty-odd not so happy ODSTs. This wasn't the first time I had been passed over in favor of another unit…nor was it the first time that said 'other unit' had been a team of Spartans. I found myself having to think more and more about Verus III to remind myself that I didn't—_wouldn't_ hate Spartans the same way most of the others did…but it was getting harder to do every time something like this happened.

"C'mon, Scar," Cajun gripped my shoulder as he walked past, pulling me with him. "I feel like shootin' the livin' shit outta the range targets…"

"Count me in," Celt fell in step behind us as we grabbed our weapons and pushed open the door stepping outside into the chilly, North Eposzian evening.

The western sky was still a rich amber-red, lingering even as the sun vanished below the horizon. I pulled on my half-finger gloves as we made our way across the greens towards the firing range. Further up the small hill which this part of Camp Hathcock was built upon was the inner compound, where Admiral Whitcomb, his staff, and the other higher-ups resided. The rest of the camp was spread out at least two kilometers in every direction.

The firing range was not a building, like in so many other bases. It was a large, unmechanized, open field. If you wanted to use it, you would set your own targets and clean up after yourself. Despite the extra workload, I preferred outdoor ranges; for sniping purposes, it helped to practice with other elements such as the wind interfering with my otherwise true shot.

There were five marines already practicing at the range; all of them using MA5Bs except for one man, who was firing a BR55.

Cajun, Celt, and I set up next to these marines, but we didn't socialize. We had just lost our op to a team of Spartans yet again; we weren't in a talking mood. We were in a shooting mood.

After an hour or so of steady target practice, one of the marines approached us. He was a shorter, dark-skinned, Indian man with a trimmed, pencil-thin mustache. For some reason, he looked oddly familiar, though I couldn't quite put my finger on where I had seen him before. "Evening," he gave us a nod. I didn't say anything back to him.

"What do ye want," Celt asked the man coolly, firing a short burst from his MA5B into one of the targets.

I loaded a round into my SRS99C's chamber and aimed downrange at one of the long-distance targets, adjusting the sights of my scope.

While most marines probably would have taken the hint that we weren't in the mood for chitchat and simply left it at that, this Indian man did not. He must be a longtime veteran, I thought. Someone who has fought the Covies long enough to lose the ability to fear other measly humans. That was to be expected, though…the marines who garrisoned Camp Hathcock were about as battle-hardened as they came.

The Indian man asked us what battalion we were from, which was interesting. Most people, when they learned we were ODSTs, left it at that. They never usually bothered to find out what battalion we were from. We told him we were from the 7th Shock Troops just to make him shut up and go away. And finally, he did.

However, ten or so minutes later, one of the other marines ceased fire and approached us. He was a stocky, broad-shouldered man. He had the three stripes and single rocker of a Staff Sergeant on his sleeves, so he had definitely been through the mill.

"Lance Corporal Singh tells me you boys are from the 7th Shock Troops," the Staff Sergeant remarked casually, as if he were talking about the weather.

"Supposin' we are," Celt replied. "What's it to you?"

The Staff Sergeant slung his rifle across his back, giving all three of us a quick once-over. "If you were, I'd ask you if you know a Staff Sergeant Garris."

Unfortunately, he said that right before I fired. My shot went wide, drilling into the hillside beyond my target. I swore, sliding another round into the chamber, and aimed downrange once more, ready to take the shot again. "He's a Gunnery Sergeant, now," I said as I squeezed the trigger. As I saw the round strike the target's inner circle, I lowered my rifle and stood up, turning back to face the Staff Sergeant.

Though most of the Staff Sergeant's face was obscured by his reflective glasses and helmet, I could tell that he was studying me intently. His gaze flicked from the Gunny stripes on my sleeves, to the sniper rifle I had been firing a second earlier, and back to my face. Finally, a wry grin broke out across the other man's face.

"You've gotten old, Alley," the Staff Sergeant chuckled, pulling off his helmet and sunglasses, revealing features that were beyond familiar; even with the effects of middle age, I instantly recognized him. "Took you until you saw my pretty little face to recognize your old friend Dempsey."


	50. IV Chapter 50: Interruptions

Chapter Fifty: Interruptions

**July 24, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

When you're constantly fighting for the greater part of your life, you don't exactly become a jolly, emotional teddy-bear. I was no exception. I wouldn't exactly say I'm humorless—I've still got a bit of the spark I had as a teenager…but even the simple act of smiling was becoming more and more alien to me. Soon, I would probably end up like one of those washed-up vets who live out the rest of their lives in a whiskey bottle.

But when Dempsey took off his helmet and revealed himself, I let out an ecstatic whoop—quite out of character for a forty-four year old Gunnery Sergeant—and gripped my oldest friend in a powerful bear hug.

"What's this, they made your dumb ass a Staff Sergeant?" I laughed as we released each other.

Dempsey nodded. "You leaving the 9th sucked beyond all imagination, don't get me wrong, but it _did_ leave a vacant squad leader's position that I—out of the goodness of my heart—decided to fill. Then, after three years, I made platoon Staff Sergeant."

"Who has the old squad, then?"

"Sergeant Esposito."

"Get outta town; Miguél Esposito's still alive?"

"No, he died. It's his corpse that's in command of the squad."

"Oh, hardy-fucking-har…"

Dempsey and I were like two old vets in a bar, hacking and jawing over old war stories. We went on for about four or five minutes before we remembered where we were and who we were with.

"This is part of your old squad," Dempsey gestured to the other four marines with him. The girl and two of the guys were younger kids—early twenties—and Dempsey nodded to them, saying, "You wouldn't know these supersoldiers; they came in with our latest batch of replacements on Trinidad last year, before we got transferred to the Hathcock Garrison. But Singh…" he nodded at the Indian marine, "I'm sure you remember."

And I did. Singh had been one of the replacements I'd welcomed into my squad back when the 9th was stationed on New Harmony. That had been my final battle with the 9th Force Recon Battalion; I had been granted entry into the Helljumpers afterwards.

I glanced at Singh's hair and mustache. Last time I had seen him, he had been practically hairless. "Esposito treating you boys right?" I asked them.

"It's Esposito, sir," Singh chuckled. "Don't need to say anything more than that."

I then introduced Celt and Cajun to Dempsey. The fact that he had also been part of the Harvest Militia caught their attention; members of the Harvest Militia were well-known throughout the UNSC as having the distinction of being the first unit to fight the Covenant.

In the surprise of finding my oldest friend here at the firing range, I realized that I had forgotten one of the most important implications of his presence. If he was here, that meant the rest of the 9th was, too.

"Is…uh…" I leaned in close. "Where's…?"

Dempsey's mouth curved upwards in a wry grin. "Back at our company barracks. Why don't you come back with me? I could think of a few people who wouldn't mind seeing you again."

I traded glances with Celt and Cajun, silently asking them if they wanted to come along. Celt shook his head, holding up his assault rifle. "They be your friends, Scar, not ours. You go ahead."

The marines and my squadmates returned to their places on the firing range and resumed their target practice. Dempsey laid an arm around my shoulders and steered me away from the range and back down towards the barracks. "Not the friendliest guys I've ever met," he remarked, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at my two squadmates.

"You were in the Harvest Militia; they respect you," I told him. "You should see how they treat people they _don't_ like…"

"So you've been here for the past six days, and you never thought it would be nice to drop by and say hello?"

"I knew the 9th was on Reach, but I didn't know it was in Camp Hathcock," I explained. "I mean, us being in the same damn camp would have been extremely good luck. And since when do we have good luck?"

Dempsey gave an innocent shrug. "We're still alive…"

"Well, besides that."

"…after thirty years."

"I said _besides_ that."

"…when billions of others have died."

"Okay, _fine,_" I rolled my eyes to the heavens. "We're two extremely lucky guys. There."

Dempsey's only response was a hearty chuckle. We moved along quietly for another few minutes, but as we reached the residential compounds my friend broke the silence once more. "I've missed these conversations," he admitted. "You've been gone too long."

"Amen…" I murmured. "Though I have to say…I haven't missed the trenches."

"Can't argue with you there."

"What about McCandlish?" I asked about my old platoon leader. "Is he still around?"

"In a way," Dempsey's smiled widened a little further as we passed another barracks unit and stepped towards the adjacent one, which was labeled 'E-35'. "Captain Ryan from Delta Company swallowed a plasma bolt during Paris IV, three years ago, and Colonel Ndebele chose McCandlish to replace him. He was bumped up to Captain and transferred to Delta."

"Then…alright, then who's got the platoon?"

"The 2nd Looey who replaced McCandlish lasted about a week, and we haven't gotten another officer since then, so…technically _I_ am, as platoon Staff Sergeant."

"_Hah!_" I snorted. "First you're a Staff Sergeant, now you're a fucking platoon leader…what's the universe coming to, eh?"

This time, Dempsey had no snappy retort. Just a weary grunt, followed by, "I can see why you don't miss being a squad leader."

"Yeah…" I held open the barracks entrance for Dempsey. "I miss the men and women I used to command…but I _don't_ miss the job… And besides, I was never really cut out for it the way people like Macintyre or Byrne were."

Dempsey gave a shrug as he stepped inside. I followed him, shutting the entrance behind me. "You had a different way of doing it, that's all. Macintyre put the fear of God into all of us—even heathens like you. You were more…subtle. And speaking of old Macintyre, you should say hello if you see him around; he's our Company Gunny. But hey; it's all in the past now."

I saw a few familiar faces as I made my way through the barracks, but only a few. There were a scant handful of marines left from the old days. I knew the chances of visiting Alpha Company again had been slim… I confess; I had almost assumed that I would get a…I don't know; a 'happy reunion' of some kind...I'd never admit this to anyone, but it's one of those things you just begin to assume over the years. The depressing reality of the whole thing is that most of the men and women who would remember me were dead. Or transferred to another unit…though the former is more likely. But apart from trading nods with Esposito, Geoffries, and a few of the other veterans, the only kind of welcome I got were stares from younger marines—seeing a Helljumper in their midst would certainly break the monotony of garrison duty.

Sophie Devereux was lying in her bunk, which was right in front of one of the windows. A surge of emotion rose up the back of my neck as I beheld her. Lately, I had grown in a full beard—trimmed, of course—and it, along with the rest of my reddish-brown hair, was beginning to get shot through with flecks of gray. Devereux, however…she was more scarred up than I remember, but age otherwise doesn't seem to have affected her very much. If only we could all be so lucky.

"Mm... yeah, she's out," Dempsey observed, poking Devereux on the shoulder. The blonde Frenchwoman didn't even react.

I wasn't ready to give up. It had been a long time since I had seen Devereux face-to-face. After leaving the 9th on New Harmony fifteen years ago, I hadn't heard from her for at least three years—she still wouldn't tell me why—and after that I had only seen her sporadically. So, if she happened to be in one of her deep sleeps...it was time to get creative. "Toss me your canteen," I grinned.

Dempsey was hesitant, at first. "Uh...you sure that's a good idea?"

"Yeah. Toss me the canteen."

"She punched out the last guy who woke her up like that."

"Dempsey. Canteen. Now."

"Your funeral," Dempsey unclipped the canteen on his belt and tossed it over.

I caught it and unstoppered the cap, tilting it over Devereux's face. "Don't worry; I'm the one guy in the Orion Arm she'd never-"

I never got to finish that sentence. Even before I could say _punch,_ a fist moving at what felt like Mach One connected with my jaw, sending me flying back into the adjacent bunk.

"You stupid bastards don't take a hint, do you? You splash me awake, you lose teeth; _that's_ how it works!" Devereux swung out of her bunk, her fist raised as she prepared to bring it down on the splasher, who just so happened to be me.

"Stop it!" I vaulted over the bunk and crouched behind it, using it as a shield. "It's _me,_ you crazy French bitch!"

Devereux stayed her fist, her brow furrowing in a frown. "…Alley?" The frown softened and a disbelieving smile broke through. "_Alley?_"

"Hey, Soph," I nodded quickly, a grin tugging at my mouth as well as I slowly stood back up to my full height. "You done with the punching?"

She pulled me into a firm embrace, not bothering to answer that last question. She didn't need to. I guess I kind of deserved it for waking her up with water…but _damn,_ she sure could throw a punch…

"Told you it was a bad idea," Dempsey shrugged, though there was no real emotion behind the words besides amusement.

"You want to…get outta here for a little while?" I gestured with my head towards the entrance of the barracks.

"I know a place," Devereux slipped her hand into mine and we left the barracks together. We moved across the greens and onto the nearby gravel road that ran up to the inner compound. We crossed the road and walked a short distance across the plateau to one of the ridges overlooking the Sáragres Valley, over which Camp Hathcock was built. The final rays of the sun were gradually succumbing to the darker blues of impending dusk, the sun having already set a short while ago.

Devereux and I sat in front of a large poplar tree, watching the dwindling sunlight in the west. We talked for a while, mostly filling each other in on our lost time—there was plenty of it. I told her all about my time as a Helljumper—omitting the more sensitive details of the black ops my squad had taken part in.

After I left the 9th Force Recon, apparently they had gone on to fight in nearly every major engagement, including New Constantinople, Irivet V, Paris IV, Trinidad…the more Devereux told me, the less surprised I was to find that most of the faces I remembered from Alpha Company were no longer here.

A light breeze breathed across the ridge, rustling the foliage. I blew several of Devereux's hairs out of my face. "It's been too long, Soph."

"Way too long," she agreed.

By now, the sun was long gone, along with the red twilight glow. The night sky gradually darkened enough to reveal the twinkling canopy of stars. An owl—or at least something that sounded exactly like one—began hooting somewhere nearby. After a few seconds, it was answered by another, more distant bird.

"Ask you something?" I murmured to Devereux.

"What?"

"After New Harmony, when I left… you didn't respond to any of my mail. I didn't hear from you for three years…_three years,_ Soph. Mind telling me why?"

Devereux's expression darkened a little bit. "I'd rather not talk too much about it… I got involved in some drinking, is all."

I gave a cynical snort at that. "What self-respecting marine _hasn't?_"

"No, I mean _drinking_. Heavy drinking. Fried most of my liver, had to get a flash-clone replacement, nearly overdosed on anti-depressants…"

"Oh…" I hesitated. "Shit…"

"_Oui, certainement_…" she agreed.

"Can I ask why?" Sure, sometimes we fell of the wagon every once in a while, but what she was describing was pretty…_extreme_. I wouldn't mind knowing what would drive a person to abuse themselves like that…especially if that person was the closest thing I had to a romantic partner.

Devereux was silent for a few minutes, not answering my question. I wanted to press the issue, but I knew that wouldn't get me anywhere. She'd open up when she wanted to. Not that it mattered; neither of us got the chance to speak of it again—at that moment, a loud, blaring klaxon alarm began to wail, echoing off the cliff faces of the nearby mountains.

"The hell?" I twisted around glancing up the rise of the plateau.

"We should head back," Devereux sighed. "Alarms aren't good things to miss…"

When we got back to the outer compound, the whole place was buzzing with activity. Marines were moving this way and that, reporting to posts, securing gear, following and taking orders; just an hour or two ago, the whole place had been practically asleep—it was disconcerting to see everyone thrown into such a frenzy.

"_Nom d'un nom_, you'd think they found Covies in one of the tents…" Devereux muttered as we walked into the compound.

"Hey, buddy!" I called over to a passing marine. "What the hell's going on?"

"End of the fuckin' world, _that's_ what!" the marine snapped, brushing by without another word.

I barely had enough time to holler insults at the asshole as he walked off before I heard my name being called. I turned in the direction of the person who was shouting it and instantly picked out the Master Sergeant from the rest of the fray, standing out in his ODST armor. "_Scar!_" he was shouting, trying to get my attention.

"Sarge!" I shouted back, waving over to him.

"Pack your gear, Scar! We're moving out!"

"Sarge, what the fuck's going on?" I exclaimed as Devereux and I made our way over to my squad leader so that I wouldn't have to shout. "Everyone's acting like it's the-"

"Haven't you heard?" the Master Sergeant asked. "Word came in from Visegrad. No idea what those Spartans found out there, but Admiral Whitcomb just declared WINTER CONTINGENCY. The Covenant is on Reach."


	51. IV Chapter 51: Deep Breath

Chapter Fifty-One: Deep Breath

**August 11, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

This was unusual. Normally when Covies decide to attack a colony, they…well, they _attack_ it. It's been over two weeks since WINTER CONTINGENCY was declared, and the Covenant still had had yet to strike. Obviously, our forces had engaged some Covies in the remote Visegrad Province, but when we had been sent in to secure the Visegrad Relay afterwards, the whole damn place was empty.

All we had found were corpses—dead Army troopers, dead Covies, and dead farmers who had been caught in the crossfire. I'm sure that team of Spartans hadn't killed every single Covie in Visegrad, so the Covenant must have pulled their forces out.

But to where?

I remember that sinking feeling in my gut as I picked my way through the carnage that covered the Visegrad Relay. That sinking feeling that we would soon find out. This was different from most other battles I had participated in. When you go into battle, you definitely feel nervous as shit, but you _know_ what awaits you.

Here, I had been on temporary garrison duty, for heaven sakes, on the colony that was supposed to be the safest place in the UNSC. And then the Covenant shows up and completely surprises us; this had only happened to me once before, on New Harmony, and _that_ had just been a shadow force. I had no idea what kind of manpower the Covies had on Reach.

From what I'd seen at Visegrad, it was pretty obvious that there had only been a scouting force of Covies present. It had been mostly grunts and jackals, with a core group of Elites…too few Elites for it to have been an assault force. Which makes some measure of sense; send in a small force to take out one of our primary communication stations, plunge Reach into a blackout for a couple of weeks, and then…well, that's as far as they've gotten, so far.

But the point is that those Covies had to have been part of a larger force, the location of which we have absolutely no idea. They had to be blocking satellites and sensors, somehow, in a way we just couldn't figure out. And they hadn't attacked yet.

That was the worst part of it all; knowing that they're out there, somewhere, ready to strike…and all you can do is wait. Knowing that it's not a question of _if,_ but a question of _when_…and no one knew the _when_. Or at least, _we_ didn't know the _when_...maybe the higher-ups did, but they hadn't told us, yet.

I remembered back during my squad's stretch of lockdown duty in the Olympic Tower when Cheyenne had told us that roughly sixty percent of the fleet was being recalled to Reach; it turned out that they _hadn't_ been recalled—simply put on standby. And if the fleet hadn't actually been recalled before, it sure as shit will have been recalled now. But my alarm bells should have been ringing then and there; even before the Visegrad Relay went dark, there had been reports of disappearing families—that was exactly what had happened on New Harmony before we discovered the Covenant-occupied caverns.

That knowledge, combined with the alert sent out to the fleet, should have made me at least _consider_ the possibility that it was the Covenant…but maybe the majority of my mind wasn't willing to accept that Reach, our fortress among the stars, could possibly be attacked by the Covenant.

But now they were here…and suddenly, the bastion of the UNSC felt a lot less safe.

"Gentlemen," Captain Delucci strode into the dimly-lit troop bay of the pelican which we were situated in, breaking the silent melancholy that had been fermenting for the past few hours or so.

Not wishing to repeat my little 'zoning out' incident during Delucci's earlier briefing before we left for the Olympic Tower over two weeks ago, I made a conscious effort to drag myself out of my own thoughts and pay heed to my surroundings with double the normal amount of attention.

Captain Delucci was inputting commands into his arm-mounted TACPAD. A satellite image was projected onto the floor, making it look as if we were gazing down on Reach from orbit just by looking down at our feet. The Captain focused the image in on a smaller landmass that was connected to the continent of Eposz's northeastern outcropping by a narrow isthmus.

"This little piece of paradise that we're looking at is the Viery subcontinent," Delucci informed us. "That's where we're heading at present. Last night, an Army Spec Ops asset made contact with local militia troops, and they discovered a large Covenant assault force—the equivalent of a small army—in Viery. Since that report, Command has been organizing a massive counterattack. We are going to be part of the counteroffensive; our overarching goal is simply to drive every last one of the bastards off our planet."

"Simple and straightforward…" Cajun murmured. "I like it."

"Question?" Virgin leaned forward, frowning at the holographic image of Viery. "If the Covies _do_ have a small army in the Viery subcontinent…wouldn't one think our sensors would have…I don't know…_detected_ them?"

"The Covenant advance forces were able to set up stealth pylons throughout their staging ground, masking their presence," Delucci replied. "But the pylons have been taken care of. FLEETCOM is still mobilizing all of our ground forces, but a good chunk of what we have so far is being sent into Viery. In less than two hours' time, we're going to be engaging the Covies on every front. I'm sending you in with the 12th Marine Regiment."

"And our objective?" the Master Sergeant asked.

"The 12th will be assaulting the Covies' main holdout, where they have set up three teleportation deployment spires; we've observed Covenant reinforcements emerging from these spires at regular intervals. These spires must be destroyed," Delucci declared. He paused, checking the time readout on his TACPAD before continuing. "I will be in command of the UNSC frigate _Grafton,_ which will lead the aerial assault on these spires. However, in order for us to destroy them, the energy shields protecting them have to be neutralized—that is where _you_ come in."

My expression remained blank. Of course, it didn't matter what my expression was; no one would see anything past the silver faceplate of my helmet. But it was blank nonetheless. To be honest, I was ill at ease with this upcoming op. It was the first time I had been thrown into an open battle since Paris IV…and it was a lot easier to die in open combat.

The fact that this seemed to be a vehicular assault multiplied that likelihood.

"You will be deployed to Bravo Base, in the far southern reaches of the Viery Plain. The 12th Regiment will be pushing through the Akäszto Valley towards a Covenant generator complex which is supplying the power for those shields," Captain Delucci explained. "The shields can alternatively be shut down manually from each individual spire, but it would take an entire armored regiment or a team of Spartans to breach one of them, so we're focusing on the generator complex. Once that complex goes up in smoke, we can bring in the big guns and hit the spires."

"What's the catch?" I asked after the Captain had finished.

Delucci arched an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

I settled into a more comfortable position on the bench as I clarified. "Don't tell me that once we destroy these spires, we can all go back to Camp Hathcock, kick our feet up, have a few cold ones, and call it a day. There's always something more."

"I'm sure you're right, Scar," Delucci agreed. "There _is_ always a catch. Only problem is that we don't know what it is, yet. Until we do, we'll just have to take this one step at a time, starting with those spires."

Delucci finished the impromptu briefing a few minutes later. I didn't pay much attention to what he had to say afterwards; I already knew the mission and the objective. It was different than before, though, as I've already said. Normally, when the Captain gave us a briefing, he was telling us what we, as a squad, needed to accomplish in order to consider the mission a success.

Now, he was simply telling us the same objective that was being told to roughly two-thousand other marines. He was telling us the parameters of a large offensive…we were part of something a lot bigger than this squad, and that was new for us. We weren't as important as we used to be. We were now part of the common rank and file for this new offensive.

Before too long, we felt the change in the pelican's engine as it began to slow down and lose altitude, descending towards the ground. After a few minutes of gradual descent, we came to a complete stop. The rear of the dropship opened up, allowing the dull, bluish light of dawn to shine into the troop bay.

I would have squinted at the faint light, but my polarized faceplate automatically filtered it out. Anyone who wasn't wearing a helmet—minus Delucci, of course—put theirs on, polarizing their faceplates as well. Before we could walk off, the Captain grasped the Master Sergeant's shoulder.

"Report to General Eckhart," he ordered. "He's the one in charge of the ground forces taking part in the assault on Akäszto Valley. I'll be leading the effort in the skies, so this may be the last time we see each other for a little while. Godspeed."

"And you as well, sir," the Master Sergeant snapped off a crisp salute to our handler. We all did likewise, dropping them only when Delucci returned the gesture. We always saluted him before dropping into battle. Sure, he didn't always risk his life as much us, but as far as officers go—especially ONI spooks—Delucci was alright.

The Captain turned and climbed back into the pelican, which rose back up into the air and flew off, taking Delucci to his new frigate.

That left us on the airfield of what I assumed to be Bravo Base—a large military hub that had been set up in the wide-open, dusty Viery Plain the night before. As the sun began to peek over the eastern horizon, shooting the deep navy blue sky through with streaks of gold and maroon, the Master Sergeant led us through the bustling airfield towards the command post in the center of the whole place.

Marines and technicians were all hurrying this way and that, prepping for the upcoming offensive. There were a lot of warthogs and scorpions parked around Bravo Base. Perfect vehicles for a blitzkrieg-esque offensive.

The command post was a simple concentration of high-tech equipment. I didn't even know what half of the crap there did, but it wasn't my job to know. As long as they helped us, I really didn't care what they did.

The man in charge of everything was hunched over a tactical ops station—one of those tables with the holographic surfaces. He was an older man—completely shaven head, a thick gray mustache, and a five o'clock shadow covering the lower half of his face, suggesting that he hadn't quite gotten the chance to shave in the recent past. The way things seemed to be going, he would probably grow his beard down to his knees before he got another chance.

I didn't even need to look at my friend/foe identifier to know who he was—the two stars on his beret and shoulder straps sufficiently identified him as Major General Edward "Ironguts" Eckhart, the near-legendary ground commander who had managed to annihilate the outnumbering Covenant ground forces during the Battle of Redmont City on New Constantinople with a single division. Even though the Battle of New Constantinople had been lost, ending with the glassing of the colony, Eckhart's actions had saved a lot of lives.

It was interesting to finally meet him in the flesh.

"You're Delucci's boys, aren't you?" the General rumbled after the Master Sergeant introduced himself. "Yeah, the Captain told me to expect you. I'm glad to have your skill sets for this offensive—the boys're gonna need all the help they can get."

"We'll need vehicles," the Master Sergeant reminded Eckhart.

The General gave a nod and snapped us a salute before returning his attention to the tactical ops station. "Take two warthogs and a scorpion; that should suit you just fine. Now, get—I've got an offensive to run, here."

"_Sir,_" the Master Sergeant returned the salute and turned on his heels, stepping lively out of the command center. We all followed suit making our way towards the outer perimeter of Bravo Base, where the army of vehicles was parked.

Noncoms and lower-ranking officers were all shouting at the top of their lungs, directing their men and women into warthogs. The time was 0736 hours, and the offensive was scheduled to begin at 0800. As marines mounted up, they drove their vehicles out of Bravo Base's perimeter and joined the rapidly-growing formation out on the open plains.

All of my squadmates opened up our COM relays to the general channel so that we would be able to receive orders from the higher-ups.

A few minutes later, we mounted up. I climbed onto the turret of one of our warthogs. Cajun took the wheel and Pyro jumped into the passenger seat. The Master Sergeant and Celt took the other warthog, while Virgin and Apache took the scorpion tank.

"Start this thing up, man," Pyro grunted as he hefted his SPNKr launcher, resting it across his lap, drumming his fingers on the heavy weapon impatiently.

As Cajun started up the engine, I pressed the triggers for a split-second, letting the triple barrels of the M41 LAAG spin up. I released the triggers before the turret could actually fire—I just wanted to make sure it wouldn't bitch out on me later, when we were in the heat of things.

At 0800 hours, we got the order straight from General Eckhart to begin the assault. The roar of several hundred engines flaring up rumbled across the plain. The sound was intensified by every one of those vehicles accelerating.

"You boys ready?" Cajun shouted over to Pyro and me, revving the motor.

"Punch it!" I replied.

I held on tight as Cajun stomped down on the accelerator. We zoomed forward, kicking up a cloud of dust in our wake. I swiveled the turret around to face front, watching the twisting, angular buttresses and rock formations of the Viery Badlands as they slowly grew closer and closer.

Here we go again.


	52. IV Chapter 52: The Badlands

Chapter Fifty-Two: The Badlands

**August 12, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

Akäszto Valley was about two kilometers distant; the plain still ran flat for most of that stretch before we started heading into the canyons and gorges that ran through and formed the Viery Badlands—a sprawling region of gorges, canyons, buttresses, and rock spires reaching up to the sky in some of the oddest patterns.

It almost looked artificial, the way the flat, dusty plain suddenly morphed into the chaotic terrain of the Badlands. I looked at the looming spires and crags of rock one last time before devoting my full attention to what was ahead of our warthog.

There were so many vehicles charging across the plains that it was hard to appreciate the vastness of the offensive from my vantage point. The hundreds of warthogs and dozens of scorpion tanks racing across the plains kicked up one hell of a dust cloud—enough so that if one were to look down on our assault force, the forerunners of our numbers would be visible, but everything behind them would be obscured in that dust cloud.

My helmet's VISR did a good job of dispelling the dust, although it really wasn't too much of a problem. We were moving fast enough to be able to stay ahead of the cloud before it really ballooned out.

The sky was a pale yellow. Dark stratus clouds hung low in the sky, causing the light of the rising sun to color the towering, twisting crags of the Badlands in various shades of yellow and orange, with the shadows seeming more purple than black. The clouds of dust, coupled with the light morning fog, distorted the light even more, making the landscape seem more…chaotic. Dreamlike...or maybe _nightmarish_ would be more appropriate, given the circumstances.

Before I even knew it, we were speeding down the center of Akäszto Valley. It wasn't so much a valley in the traditional sense—two ridges, mountains, or tall hills with a depression running in between. Instead, it was more a pathway through the chaos of the Badlands; a long, winding corridor of relatively flat ground surrounded on both sides either by the towering, angular crags, or by deep chasms.

The valley itself was over a kilometer wide, and it ran for nearly eight kilometers until it opened up into the Maglód Caldera—the massive, low-lying, bowl-shaped region of the Badlands where the three teleportation spires were located…as well as the generator complex that supplied the power for the energy shields protecting them, which we were supposed to storm and destroy.

I guess Command's mindset was that if they tossed an entire regiment at that generator complex, at least _someone_ might be able to make it all the way through. At least we got tanks for this assault; _that_ much we could be grateful for…

There was an explosion somewhere off to the right, on the other side of one of the gorges. I briefly saw a Covenant pylon of some sort before it vanished in a bright conflagration of white flame.

"What the hell was that?" Cajun asked, shouting to be heard over the din.

"Don't care!" Pyro shouted back.

As we continued to roar down the valley, a shadow crossed over our warthog. I glanced upwards and gave a start of surprise. A good-sized group of falcons, and even a handful of pelicans, had joined the assault, flying in low.

Well, maybe Command wasn't exactly throwing our lives away if they were sending in close-air support with us…I guess getting rid of that generator complex was all the more important. Once we could clear the way for the frigates, Viery would be ours.

"_Bloody hell, we got banshees comin' in hot!_" one of the marines in the warthog next to us yelled at the top of his lungs.

Plasmafire began to rain down into our midst. One of the charges clipped the front of our jeep, causing Cajun to lose control for a split-second. The Louisianan gripped the wheel and wrenched the warthog back into its original path, reasserting his control over the vehicle.

I swung the turret forward. A squadron of six banshees was coming in hot, their nose-mounted plasma cannons ablaze, burning holes in the ground wherever they hit. In warthogs, too.

I pulled the triggers. The M41-LAAG spun up and opened fire, spitting out leaden death at nine hundred rounds per minute. The banshees grew closer and closer, continuing to fire down at us. I kept up my fire on those fliers, as did many of the other warthogs.

The banshees swooped in low, howling overhead and overshooting us, going on to strafe our forces further on back. I followed them, swinging around and firing at them as they sailed away. As several of the falcons broke off to pursue, I did likewise, ceasing fire and swinging back around to face front.

"_Here we go_…" Cajun murmured over the SQUADCOM. "_We got wraiths up ahead_…"

The Louisianan was right. I couldn't actually see the wraiths that were waiting for us because of the incline of the valley—it ran upwards for a distance before angling back downwards, and the wraiths were on the other side. The smog that was hanging over the valley was tinted purple up ahead as well, hinting at a significant Covenant presence. As I watched, crackling blue bolts of plasma arced high up into the sky from beyond the incline.

"Keep an eye on the sky, Cajun," I said to my squadmate.

The plasma slammed down to the ground. One of the warthogs at the front of the advance was hit and instantly reduced to a burning, charred wreck that was sent spinning through the air. Several other warthogs swerved aside in order to avoid being struck by the wreck.

One of the wraith shots landed in front of our warthog. A layer of dirt and cinders smacked into our windshield. I swore as some of the debris struck me as well, though the majority of it simply bounced off my armor.

A small group of warthogs detached from the main group, heading off towards a bridge that spanned the chasm to our right. "Where the hell are they going?" I asked.

Pyro gave me the same answer he had given Cajun earlier: "_Don't care._"

We blew past the bridge and roared over the incline. Sure enough, waiting for us a quarter of a kilometer ahead was a vehicular assault force similar to ours, composed of ghosts, wraiths, and revenants, as opposed to scorpions and warthogs.

Several of our pelicans swooped in ahead of us and strafed the Covie force with their missiles, taking out as many of the wraiths as they could before they were forced to pull out by the overwhelmingly superior firepower.

"Oh, this'll be good," I muttered, tightening my grip on the turret. "Been nice knowing you two! We had a good run!"

"_You're still on the SQUADCOM, Scar!_" the grizzled, clipped tones of the Master Sergeant crackled through my earpiece. "_Cut it out with the defeatist talk!_"

One of the warthogs not too far in front of us exploded suddenly, struck by another one of the plasma bolts. The burning wreck rolled end over end, striking another jeep and causing it to crash.

"Oh, God _damn_ it!" Pyro shouted as we drove past the two wrecks. "Wouldn't mind havin' those frigates up above us right about now!"

"_Can't be done; there's AA emplacements further on back blocking their way,_" the Master Sergeant responded. "_That generator complex will shut _them_ down, as well!_"

"Jus' me, or do y'all think them Covies put a lil' _too_ much faith in that technology o' theirs? I mean, rollin' all the power in the area into _one_ generator reactor?" Cajun couldn't help but remark.

"It's because they're arrogant sons of bitches!" Pyro replied. "Why distribute the power when they don't think we'll ever be able to touch them?"

"Wouldn't thirty years of fighting us have taught them otherwise?" I interjected, ducking reflexively as a bright purple streak from a Covie beam rifle seared through the air not too far from my head.

"_Well, you know the Covenant,_" Virgin said over the SQUADCOM. "_Great fighters, slow learners!_"

As we roared down the decline towards the rapidly-approaching line of Covie armor, the handful of rocket warthogs we had fired their payloads, sending six missiles per unit blazing into the oncoming ghosts. In response, the Covie revenants opened fire, sending their crackling, reddish-purple plasma shells down our throats.

The warthog next to us went up in flames from one of those shots. I grimaced, turning away from the sight—there was no way in hell anyone had survived that.

A nearby scorpion fired its main cannon, making our ears ring. One of the revenants was knocked off-course, its chassis badly pummeled from taking the scorpion's AP shell in the gut, but the vehicle as a whole—including its mortar—was still functional.

It was chaos when our advance smashed into theirs. Several warthogs and ghosts literally _smashed_ into each other, going up in flames that roared twice as high into the sky as normal. It was only thanks to Cajun's skill with the wheel that we avoided a similar fate. The Louisianan wrenched the e-brake and put us into a drift to the left. As we turned away from the ghost that was about to pulp us, Pyro lifted his SPNKr and fired a rocket right into the nose of the Covie assault vehicle.

The ghost went sky-high, bursting into blue and white flames as it spun out of our path. Cajun swerved us back onto our original path about the same time as I started opening fire. I aimed mostly for ghosts piloted by grunts; they were the easiest targets to take down with a LAAG—Elites had energy shields, requiring more firepower to kill, while revenants and wraiths were simply a lot tougher to crack. It was perfectly possible to destroy a wraith with a LAAG, but it took a while.

I knocked one of the grunt drivers out of its seat with my first burst of fire. The ghost continued to coast along at a leisurely rate before finally slowing down to a complete stop a good distance behind us. I shifted my fire to another ghost which was in turn peppering another marine-driven warthog. As I started to strafe that ghost, my aim was thrown off when the rear of our warthog was struck by a projectile fired from a revenant.

Luckily, it was only a graze. If it had hit at a sharper angle, we probably would have been blown to cinders. And if it had hit us any higher..._I_ would have been blown to cinders_, regardless_ of the angle.

The warthog spun out, nearly throwing me off the turret. The only thing that kept me on the warthog was my white-knuckled death-grip on the LAAG's trigger handles. Cajun pounded the accelerator and got us back into the game, running over a lone, displaced Elite for good measure.

I went on to center my fire back onto that ghost I had been attacking before, but it was able to boost out of range before I could finish the job. The ground shook as a plasma shell slammed down behind us, bouncing the back of our 'hog into the air momentarily.

"Revenant on our six!" Cajun hollered back to me. "Handle it, Scar!"

"On it!" I gripped the LAAG and swung myself around. Sure enough, the revenant that had nearly atomized me a minute earlier was trailing us, steadily gaining on us from behind. As I opened fire on the Covie light tank, a shower of sparks cascaded along its frontal armor.

We shot past a wraith, which barely had time to turn to try and sight us. The revenant kept on our tail, though, firing plasma shells at us. Any of the other friendly vehicles nearby were likewise engaged; I would have to waste this revenant on my own. I kept up the fire on the Covie light tank, aiming for the driver's and passenger's seats towards the rear.

It was a bugger of a target to hit, though. The slope and angle of the revenant's frontal armor made it difficult to strike the driver.

Another plasma shell slammed into the ground just off to our left, showering us with dirt and debris.

"Don' mean ta sound rude, Scar, but will ya _kill that fuckin' revenant, already?_" Cajun practically screamed at me as he avoided another shot from the Covie light tank, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror.

"I'm doing the best I can!" I shot back. "It's not like the Covies build their revenants out of fucking tissue paper, you know!"

"_Just shut up and kill it!_" Cajun screamed for real this time, obviously not in the mood for any backtalk.

I hadn't let up on the revenant—its armor was simply made of tougher stuff. What saved us was the fact that the revenant's only weapon was its plasma mortar. If it had had a turret—like a wraith—we would have been toast. As it was, that revenant could only fire once every couple seconds, and there was no guarantee of a hit. I, on the other hand, despite having a much weaker weapon at my disposal than a plasma mortar, was able to keep up a constant barrage of firepower raining down on the Covie vehicle, and I was able to accurately aim it. Though lead did little good against its armor, a _lot_ of lead went a long way.

Gradually, the revenant's armor started falling away piece by piece, exposing its juicy little insides. It had been on our tail for maybe two full minutes before it decided it had had enough, and it broke off its pursuit, leaving us to our own devices.

"You kill that little foxtrot?" Cajun asked when he noticed the absence of plasma raining down our backsides.

"Negative," I responded over the SQUADCOM so that I wouldn't have to shout. "He got wise and left. I took out his frontal armor, though…someone else'll be able to mop him up pretty easy."

"If you say so…"

I wasn't bummed or anything about not finishing off that revenant. I had destroyed enough Covie vehicles over the years that my ego would probably remain intact after losing that one. If I lost another one, though…then all bets were off.

A ghost started trailing us soon afterwards, but after dealing with that revenant, that little Covie assault vehicle was like a bad joke. I wasted it in less than thirty seconds.

Now that I didn't have anything breathing down my neck—for the moment, at least—I was able to get a better feel for our surroundings. I could see Virgin and Apache's scorpion not too far behind us, though I had lost sight of the Master Sergeant and Celt. I could hear them conversing with each other over the SQUADCOM, though, so I knew they were out there somewhere.

Most of our close air support was absent, having broken off to deal with banshees. While they weren't here to actively help us in the push through Akäszto Valley, if it weren't for them we'd have to add Covie fliers to our list of troubles. I was grateful that we did not.

I became aware that there weren't very many Covie vehicles amongst us any longer. I glanced behind us and saw the bright flashes of the battle still raging in that hell of dust as the forces that had been towards the rear of our advance now dealt with the Covenant vanguard.

I could also hear deafening, but familiar explosions coming from the fray that told me that General Eckhart must have sent in dragons behind us to mop up the mess we left. That left me with a pleasant feeling of surprise—some generals were usually loath to commit all of their armor into an assault, but Eckhart seemed to be an exception.

As we continued to move at top-speed down Akäszto Valley, there were around one-hundred-fifty to two-hundred warthogs still with us, along with twenty or so scorpions. The rest of the 12th Regiment was still bogged down in the dust. Not good, but we still had a sizeable force, and we were supposed to keep pressing on until we broke through into the Maglód Caldera.

I still had a good feeling about our progress…until I saw what was lying in front of us. A kilometer down the valley, a large force of ghosts and wraiths, as well as three squads of banshees, awaited us…along with three massive, hulking scarabs.

No way in hell very many of us would be getting past them…and those remnants of us that _did_ make it past wouldn't be enough to destroy the generator complex once we broke through into the caldera.

I could hear officers on the COM howling for reinforcements, but I couldn't make out anything in response.

More of our assault force pulled itself out of the dust and joined the main advance as we regrouped for this next blow. The crags that formed the right side of the valley gradually fell away, revealing a large canyon at least half a mile deep—probably deeper.

After another two or so kilometers, though, the valley would curve away from the edge of the canyon and venture deeper into the Badlands. I gazed over as far as I could and saw that the gaping canyon next to us eventually ran into the caldera, far ahead of us…so the valley must eventually twist back and descend into that lower ground.

"Hey, uh, Sarge? You hearin' me?" Cajun asked over the SQUADCOM.

"_Yeah, Cajun, what is it?_"

"Them scarabs are gettin' pretty damn close, sir! Any ideas? And don't you dare say '_don't die!_'"

"_Stay alive_."

We emerged onto the bare, exposed shelf overlooking the canyon, still charging straight at those fucking scarabs without a clear plan in mind other than trying to keep from getting atomized.

"_All armored units, be advised—aim for the leg joints of the scarabs,_" an officer ordered over the general COM.

_Good,_ I thought. It was amazing how many people there were in the armed forces who didn't know how to take down a scarab. Maybe the Covies weren't the only slow learners…

The distance between our forces and the scarab continued to lesson. I forced myself not to look at the scarabs; I had eyes only for the ghosts that were waiting for us. Better to concentrate on the things we could fight instead of the things we could only watch.

It was because I was concentrating on the ghosts that I missed the huge explosion. There was a bright flash of fiery light, followed by a sharp _whooshing_ noise. As I looked up, I saw the burning husks of the three scarabs slag to the side and topple, the metal giving ear-splitting screeches as it was torn and twisted. A squadron of five longsword fighters was vanishing into the distance, their bombing run complete.

"Where the fuck did _they_ come from?" Pyro shouted, shielding his eyes from the explosion. "I thought the Covies had AA emplacements all over this sector!"

"Well, _someone_ obviously shut a few of 'em down!" Cajun shot back, and no one could argue with that blunt logic.

"Well, if _they_ were able to get through," Pyro reasoned as he twisted to look up to the sky behind and to the right of us, "then that means-"

Suddenly, the COM was filled with exclamations of, "_Holy shit!_" accompanied by a loud ruckus of whooping and cheering.

Those ghosts that I had been concentrating on suddenly vanished in a hail of blazing lead. Many of the rounds were tracer rounds—the kind of ammunition that burns bright as it shoots, making it seem as if machineguns were firing streaks of fire.

If you took around a thousand warthogs, clumped them together, and aimed all their turrets into one small place, you would get an idea of the sheer magnitude of the firepower that was raining down on the Covies right now. Ghosts left and right were getting torn to shreds. The wraiths lasted a lot longer, and were even able to keep up a continuous fire on our advance for fifteen or twenty seconds before they, too, succumbed.

A shadow passed over us, darkening most of the entire valley. With the Covies preoccupied with trying to escape the hellstorm of lead, I was free to twist around and follow the river of heavy weaponsfire to its source.

Hanging low in the sky, blotting out the sun, were two UNSC frigates. They weren't very high in the sky, either; they were well below the cloudline. I had never seen UNSC naval vessels so close to the ground, before—it was certainly a sight to see. Their autocannons on either side of their flanks were all ablaze, firing untold amounts of lead down onto the Covies in the valley.

I was surprised at the presence of two frigates; I had known already that the _Grafton_ was taking part in the assault, but I didn't know that FLEETCOM had pulled another ship to assist. It was too bad they couldn't use their MAC guns…a shot from one of those suckers would obliterate the Covies in the valley in one fell swoop—only problem was that it would annihilate _us_ as well. For now, they were just restricted to their autocannons, but even so, they did a shitload of damage.

"Never thought I'd be so glad to see the fuckin' Navy!" Pyro whooped, standing up partway in his seat and blowing a gallant kiss to the pair of frigates in the sky. "I love you bastards! _I love you!_" They gave no answer.

"_Pyro, sit the fuck down!_" Cajun bellowed.

As we neared the carnage unfolding where the Covies had been waiting for us, the two frigates ceased fire, obviously not wanting to reduce _us_ to spaghetti as well. They redirected their autocannons and opened fire once more, only this time they were firing at another part of the Badlands. There were probably a few other regiments fighting in our sector, and any one of them could have used the helping hand.

There were still a few wraiths and ghosts that had survived the barrage, and they were more than willing to continue the fight…though this was more foolishness than anything else. If I had been their commander, I would have pulled them all back to the next line of defense, where they would have made a difference.

Good thing I wasn't their commander.

One by one, the wraiths were destroyed by the combined efforts of our scorpions. None of them survived—even if they had turned to flee, they wouldn't have been able to outrun us. No; the only ones that got away were the last remaining handful of ghosts.

There were also a few Hunter pairs that had been reinforcing the Covenant armor, but they, too, were swept away. Though I never enjoyed battle, it was at moments like these when I came the closest to doing so. Moments when we were just thoroughly _trashing_ the Covies—it just made me feel like I was at the top of the world.

Maybe I'm taking too much credit—after all, it _was_ the Navy that had just saved our asses. And besides, the feeling only lasted for a few moments, before I remembered that we weren't out of the woods, yet. And I had another feeling that if I felt like that for too long, the universe might try to balance our brief victory out by giving us more trouble.

We sped through the wreckage of Covenant vehicles, careful to avoid crashing into the mountains of scrap metal that had once been the scarabs. We followed the valley's path adjacent to the canyon for a while, but—as I predicted—it eventually curved away from the canyon and turned back into the Badlands proper.

There weren't as many Covies waiting for us down here. I don't think they actually expected very much to get past those scarabs of theirs—who would've thought we would have been able to storm one of their AA hubs without shutting it down from the generator facility, first? I personally wanted to kiss all the troopers who managed to pull that off, whoever they were.

There were shade turrets set up in the crags above us, the kind that fired fuel rod projectiles. As we pushed further and further down the valley, those shades always managed to bloody us up. Each one would destroy or damage a warthog or two before the scorpions or the falcons could waste them.

The final three-kilometer stretch of the valley was virtually empty, and it left me with the uneasy feeling that the Covies were finally pulling everything they had back in order to consolidate their strength. They were learning, damn them.

We ran through another concentration of revenants near the mouth of the valley, and they managed to take out three of our scorpions. Then the remaining revenants, having dealt this blow to our armor, broke off the attack and retreated, vanishing around the next bend before we could return the favor.

When _we_ made it around that next bend, we were greeted with the sight of the sprawling rock formations and hills of the Maglód Caldera…and with it, the next set of the Covies' defenses—a line of assault towers, heavy plasma turret emplacements, plasma mortars, and energy barriers that stretched across much of the mouth of Akäszto Valley, where it opened up into the Maglód Caldera.

Luckily, there weren't any scarabs defending this part of the Covenant staging ground. I opened fire at the nearest assault tower, subjecting it to a good thrashing as we sped past. The grunts manning its plasma cannons tried to return fire, but they were too slow—we were well out of their range by the time they got their aim right.

To make matters worse for us, another group of ghosts arrived to reinforce the Covenant defenses. They slammed into our center and actually managed to blast a path through our front, threatening to divide our forces in half.

We were forced to fall back to avoid getting splintered. Our remaining scorpions were able to crush that counterattack, but at the cost of our advance. We were now without any momentum, driving our heads into a brick wall, individual warthogs and scorpions trying to take on teams of Covenant defenders manning heavy cannons, shade turrets, fuel-rod launchers... More and more of our vehicles were getting roasted every minute we spent trying to break through.

I didn't relent on the LAAG turret as Cajun took us on a path parallel to the Covenant line. I don't think I killed a heck of a lot—I know I hit a good number of Elites, but their energy shields saved most of their lives. I definitely killed one split-chin, as well as a few grunts and jackals…but other than that, it was impossible to tell. We were moving too damn fast for me to accurately hit _anything_.

Pyro managed silence one of the plasma cannons with a well-aimed rocket, but it didn't even put a dent in the Covies' firepower. There were just too _many_ of them in too many well-fortified positions, and we no longer had the strength, momentum, and cohesion to break through them.

Finally, an officer asserted some semblance of control over the COM and managed to put out a general retreat order. Slowly but surely, we disengaged and hightailed it back into the valley. We kept up our fire as we retreated, discouraging the Covies from sending a pursuit force—at least we were successful in that area.

We managed to get around that final bend in the valley, taking us out of the Covies' direct line of fire. All they could do now is lob plasma mortar shots in our general direction without actually being able to see where they were shooting. After that, we settled into a steady, disorganized retreat.

In the chaos of the battle, I had completely forgotten about our rearguard forces; the ones that had stayed behind at the mouth of Akäszto Valley to combat that first group of Covenant armor. After a few minutes of steady retreating, we ran into the forerunners of that group—mostly light warthogs and a pair of scorpions. They saw us retreating and obviously thought the offensive was crushed—which it pretty much was. They turned around and joined us.

The second group of our rearguard forces contained more scorpions than the last, as well as a good handful of anti-armor warthogs—easily identifiable by their black finish, the yellow stripe running down their center, and the rocket turret mounted on their backs. They also turned around, joining in our retreat—no point in forging onward when the larger force was heading in the opposite direction.

There wasn't very much chatter over the COM, anymore. Everyone had settled into a gloom. We hadn't been able to break that Covenant line…after spending so much to get all the way through Akäszto Valley, after sacrificing so much…we could break through one more measly line of defenses. Morale was dropping faster than a swallow with coconuts tied to its feet. We would have to sit tight until we were reinforced before trying to hit the Covie line again…and by then, I knew that the Covies will have reinforced their defenses to the point of invulnerability. We would lose even more men trying to take it then…but what could we do?

Everything changed when we encountered the third and final group of our rearguard. I remembered hearing dragons back at the mouth of Akäszto Valley, and now I saw them in their full glory. There were over twenty of the hulking armored monsters, all of them moving at their top speed of sixty-five to seventy miles per hour, kicking up large plumes of dust behind each of them as they rumbled onwards.

They were accompanied by the rest of our warthogs and another four scorpions. They were the ones who took it slower than the rest of us—coldly and methodically destroying every last pocket of Covenant resistance that remained after we bombed on through.

Unlike the previous two groups of the rearguard, though, this group showed no sign of turning back.

"_What in the blue fuck is this?_" a low, gruff voice screamed over the general COM as the last. I could only assume that it was the commander of the force of dragons, as he referred to the heavy tanks as _his_. "_No wonder we're having so much trouble getting to that generator complex; you stupid shitheads are going in the _wrong fucking direction!"

The tank commander went on to say that his dragons would not hesitate to run over anyone who was stupid enough to get in their way. "_Now either turn back around and get behind me, or run on back to General Eckhart so that you can stick your heads in the mud and cry; just get your sorry, worthless asses outta my way!_"

The general COM was then filled with dozens, hundreds of angry marines cussing this asshole out. The things marines could say to one another when they were riled up… I had to disconnect myself temporarily from the general COM to clear my head. I could only take so much of the noise.

Despite the inherent rudeness—putting it mildly, obviously—in his statements, that foul-mouthed tank commander had managed to get many marines angry enough to forget our current woes. A good number of our warthogs and a few scorpions immediately slowed down and did a complete one-eighty, determined not to let this asshole of a tank commander get the best of them.

I'm not sure if I would've turned us around then and there, but Cajun didn't hesitate. I held on tight to the LAAG turret as the Louisianan made one of the most gut-wrenching hairpin turns in the history of driving. "Master Sergeant's the only one who can call me a shithead; _not_ this asshole!" the Louisianan growled.

Gradually, as the dragons passed them, more and more of the retreating vehicles turned around as well as they saw their comrades return to the advance, not wanting to return to the safety of our lines while others went onwards. By the time the dragons passed the last of our retreating force, we were a retreating force no longer. Everything we had had fallen into formation behind the dragons, forming a rough, splayed-out wedge of sorts.

The scorpions gradually formed up outside of the dragons. No doubt in communication with that tank commander, they formed the front line of our wedge formation on either side of the core of dragons, steadily cleaning up the edges of our formation so that there weren't any outliers.

The cloud of dust that was kicked up by our partially-rejuvenated force nearly blotted out the sun as efficiently as the frigates.

After five minutes of steady going, we rounded the final bend once more and came within sight of that line of Covenant defenses. Whether or not they expected to see us again so soon, I'll never know…but—for better or for worse—we were back.

And this time, we weren't going to leave so easily.


	53. IV Chapter 53: Dragons Lead the Way

Chapter Fifty-Three: Dragons Lead the Way

**August 12, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

Based on my experiences on Salamis III, I think you may have come to assume that I dislike tanks. This could not be further from the truth. Sure, I hated being _in_ tanks during a fight, and I would never want to join a tank crew, but as long as I wasn't operating one, they were one of my favorite things in the world.

That was especially true today. A contingent of M1-Deltas had just single-handedly saved the push through Akäszto Valley...I had a feeling that if—no, _when _we won the battle for Viery, it would be because of those tanks. Our offensive had steamrolled through the entire valley, only to be repulsed by a final line of Covie defenses around the valley's mouth. We had been retreating when we ran into those dragons from our rearguard.

One thing led to another, and now we all found ourselves charging back towards that line of Covenant defenses, bolstered by our rearguard forces.

"_Alright, boys, keep it splayed out,_" the Captain in charge of the contingent of dragons ordered everyone over the general COM. "_Hold this formation as long as possible!_"

We were still in a rough wedge-shaped formation, but we were spread out. Widely spaced. If we were too tightly packed, then the Covie artillery pounding us would do a hell of a lot more damage than it was doing already. Once we reached the Covie lines, though, we would compress and focus all our firepower on one segment of the defenses.

I suppose you could liken the strategy to trying to break a pane of glass. If you threw a handful of pebbles at the pane of glass, it would not be enough to break it. However, if you took all those pebbles and made it so that they all struck one specific point of the pane—fuse them into a rock, as it were—the glass would shatter. Before, we had lost all the cohesion of our advance when we found ourselves looking into the maw of the Covenant defenses. We had tried to push through the Covenant line, but without any organization or strategy. We were a handful of individual pebbles.

Now, the tanks were leading the way in. They would all concentrate on one point in the Covie lines, ignoring everything else, and they would force a gap, allowing the rest of us to pour in behind them before they got slaughtered. I'll admit that I really didn't envy the crews of those tanks during this next push.

A pair of banshees swooped in from overhead and strafed the right wing of our forces, making several hits. One of them was clipped as it flew away, but it managed to get out of range before our warthogs could take advantage of its incapacitation.

We pushed through the thick of the plasmafire. Luck was the best friend of everyone who was still alive—it was the only reason so many other warthogs had been destroyed, but mine hadn't. Hell, it was the only reason why I was still alive after fighting in a war that's been raging for nearly three decades, if you wanted to look at the broader picture.

A full minute later, the COM crackled to life and the entire regiment was ordered to form up behind the dragons. It surprised me how fast all two hundred or so warthogs were able to bunch up like that—all the drivers were really on the ball with this one.

Cajun nudged the wheel to the right, edging us towards the center of our formation. Gradually, our splayed-out wedge was compressed into something resembling a spearhead or an arrowhead, with the dragons forming the tip and the scorpions forming the rest of the razor-sharp edge.

My warthog wasn't exactly in the first or second rows behind the dragons, but we weren't back in the rear of the advance, either. We were in the general center of the arrow…maybe leaning a little towards the front.

The tanks started opening fire soon afterwards. The constant explosions of their main cannons firing filled the air, nearly drowning out everything else.

There was a massive explosion further on up as one of the dragons brewed up in flames, taken out by overwhelming firepower from the Covie wraiths. Soon after, two more scorpions met the same fate. That made me grit my teeth anxiously, watching those scorpions get pounded. Apache and Virgin were in a scorpion somewhere along the front line, but I wasn't sure which...all I could do was hope they were lucky enough to not get hit.

We probably would have lost most of our force if we had carried on like that for very much longer, but we had bunched up into our arrowhead formation just as we were nearing the Covie line. By the time the Covenant had us zeroed, we were upon them.

I couldn't see what was happening at the very front of the advance, though I wish I had been able to. The roar of the dragons clashing with the furious plasmafire from the Covie wraiths and assault platforms sounded like Gods and Titans hatebanging each other; I could only imagine what the chaos and carnage of our two armies' most powerful weapons duking it out _looked_ like. But I was able to paint a reasonable picture in my imagination.

With the protesting scream of twisting, melting metal ringing through the entire area, the dragons slammed right through the Covenant lines, their main cannons and machinegun turrets ablaze. The scorpions widened the gap, blowing the nearest assault towers and energy barriers to smithereens. Several grunts bearing fuel rod guns were able to loose off a volley of shots before they were spaghettified by the heavy turrets of the tanks.

While the dragons kept on pressing forward, the scores of warthogs that had been behind them poured into the gap they had created. We split into two main wings; one breaking off to the left, and the other to the right. While the tanks battled with the wraiths and revenants, the warthogs tore through the unprotected rear of the Covie defenses.

Those defenses were iron-hard when attacking them from the front, but—like all forms of defenses—once you got past the hard shell, the meat underneath was deliciously soft. We tore through that soft meat. Dozens of grunts and jackals—deadly while manning the turrets on the assault platforms, or the portable plasma cannons—now found themselves facing roughly two hundred warthogs with nothing to defend themselves but their plasma pistols and needlers.

They would have fared better throwing rocks and vegetables at the warthogs—that would have done more damage. I swung my LAAG in a wide arc in front of our warthog, shooting at pretty much anything nonhuman that moved. I wasn't like the Grim Reaper—felling dozens, hundreds of Covies with every stroke—but I still got in my fair share of kills. With dozens of other warthogs shooting at the same targets, though, it was hard to tell who exactly killed what. Personally, I was content to call it a team effort, as long as those Covies ended up dead.

I think we were a lot more excessive in dealing with the Covie defenders than we usually have been in the past. We had just been defeated by these bastards a short time ago, and we were thirsty for their blood. While I won't ever say that marines are ineffective as a fighting force, I'll be the first to say that they're ten times more effective when they're all pissed the hell off. Many other turret gunners would continue to riddle the corpses of dead Covies long after they were dead, venting their frustrations.

Within five minutes, all that was left of the center of the Covie defenses was a stretch of charred, blackened ruins. The remnants of the defenses were too weakened and undermanned to be a threat to us, any longer. After letting us go wild for a few more minutes, the tank Captain got onto the general COM and started reeling us back in. Though there had to be other officers partaking in the offensive, everyone seemed content to follow the orders of that Captain—after all, he _had_ saved the offensive back in the valley.

Seven of the dragons had been destroyed in the assault on the Covie lines. The crew of one of those tanks was able to bail, and they were distributed into other warthogs, but none of the others survived. That brought our number of remaining dragons down to eleven. Eight scorpions had also been lost, along with over twenty warthogs. We had broken the Covenant line...but at a steep cost.

There was now nothing significant standing in our way as we stampeded into the Maglód Caldera. From the COM chatter I was picking up, Army troopers seemed to have launched a direct assault on the first of the three Covenant Spires. If they were able to lower its shields on-site, the two frigates would be able to move even further into the Badlands. Once we destroyed the generator complex and disabled all of the Covie AA emplacements, those Spires would belong to our frigates.

At least we didn't have to blaze a path through anymore gorges, where shade turrets had almost free reign. The Maglód Caldera comprised mostly of widely-spaced buttes and batholiths, all comprised of the same color rock as the rest of the Badlands.

There were Covie shade turrets placed at key locations amidst the rock formations. Several of them were of the fuel rod-firing variant, and they incurred a fair amount of damage wherever they hit, but our scorpions and rocket warthogs made short work of them as soon as they were sighted.

Finally, the generator complex came into view. It was a large, looming structure, similar to the massive Spires, but on a somewhat smaller scale. A bright, pulsing blue energy shield protected the entire structure—generated at the very top of the tower and curving all the way down to the ground, forming a complete hemisphere around the tower and all of the surrounding areas.

I've seen holographic representations of the Covenant Spires from our pre-battle briefing from Captain Delucci. The generator complex was basically four of those towers fused together. The structure wasn't quite as tall as the Spires—perhaps only two-thirds its height. I think the Covies would normally have put such an important power reactor belowground, but they must have never considered that we would be bold enough to strike straight at the heart of their staging ground.

The Spires' use as a staging ground must have also been intended to be only temporary, which would also explain why the Covies wouldn't go through all the trouble of creating an underground facility.

Another difference from thee towers was that the generator complex was a solid structure—the Spires were simply a ground facility connected to a hovering command module by a long grav-lift. The generator complex did not have such a huge gap between its base and apex. I assumed the reactor itself was housed in the middle of the facility, surrounded on all sides by the four towers that made up the complex.

A series of grav-lifts and energy ramps lined the exterior of the complex. It was possible to get to the top of the complex simple by climbing up the tiers from the outside, which is what is looked like we'd have to do—breaching the entrance and fighting from room to room inside would take too much time.

Our formation, which had splayed back out into a general, unorganized mob, roared across a stream that lay in our path, sending waves of spray all over the banks and nearby trees. However, disaster struck when we reached the pulsing blue shield that protected the complex.

A hail of fuel rod projectiles was waiting for us as we crossed the threshold of the shield. I could see them, crackling and flashing green as they sailed through the air towards us, fired from shade turrets, heavy grunts, and higher-ranking Elites.

The moment we reached the blue energy shields, we passed right through...and came to a dead halt. Blue electricity crackled around our engines as they suddenly failed. The men in those first few warthogs had two choices—stay in their vehicles and die, or bail out. Most of them were able to leap out of their vehicles just as the barrage of fuel rods struck.

I don't know how many died in that first string of explosions, but the number couldn't have been low. Either way, I didn't have a chance to find out. Everything was happening so fast, I only saw the explosions of the warthogs in front of me as Cajun took us into the shield, unable to avoid it by that point.

Our warthog's engine coughed and died. I had time only to shout a handful of swearwords before our jeep slammed straight into the burning husk of the warthog that had been in front of us. I was thrown clear off of the LAAG turret. I hit the ground hard, barely missing the wreck of another nearby warthog.

Thick, oily smoke was gushing into the air as several more warthogs plowed right into the meatgrinder, colliding with the disabled and destroyed ones that had been ahead of them. Marines dove out of the way, running this way and that to avoid getting pulped. Add more fuel rod explosions, heavy plasmafire from Covie plasma cannons, and the constant pattering of exploding needler shards to the fray, and you could probably appreciate just how chaotic the whole scene was.

My helmet had been knocked off by the impact. I looked over to the side and saw it lying in the dust. A fine layer of ash had already settled upon it. I rolled onto my side, but quickly returned to my original position on my back when an intense jolt of pain suddenly tore through my shoulder. I cried out at the spasm of pain, clutching at my shoulder.

There was another nearby explosion and a piece of debris smacked me right in the leg. I swore again when I saw that it hadn't been debris, but a human arm. I sat, careful not to agitate my shoulder, and pulled myself over to my helmet, which I promptly put back on, polarizing the faceplate.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw my sniper rifle lying a few feet away, still in one piece. If it had broken…well, let's just say that I'm a much better fighter with a sniper rifle than with an MA5.

I grabbed the weapon and checked the firing mechanism and scope, making sure everything was in working order. When I tried to pick it up all the way, though, my shoulder gave out and I dropped it.

"Easy! Easy!" a hand clamped down on my good shoulder, turning me around. A young Corporal was gesturing at my arm. "Your shoulder's dislocated, old man!"

I looked down at my afflicted shoulder and instantly saw that the marine was right; my right arm was hanging noticeably lower than my left. "Make it quick," I grunted.

I had barely finished speaking when the Corporal jerked my arm back into its socket. The relief was immediate—the pain was still there, but it was only a faint presence. I worked my arm around in short circles, wagging it back and forth, making sure I had regained full usage.

The Corporal didn't hang around for thanks; he was gone by the time I looked back up. I knew that, if I lived to see tomorrow, I'd have to talk to a medic to get that joint checked—improperly resetting a joint could result in _worsening_ the injury, not helping it.

But there was no use in worrying about that now. As long as I could lift my rifle, I was fine.

I hefted my sniper rifle and started to move. I kept low as I went—keeping mostly behind the cover of the dozens of warthog wrecks, ignoring the corpses strewn all over the place. Plasma came close to taking my head off several times as I went, but I kept right on moving regardless.

The surviving marines were all under cover as well, trading fire with the Covie defenders.

There were several hundred yards between our position and the Covenant generator complex. There were rock formations and a boulders scattered all throughout this space. However, the entire expanse was covered by the mounted plasma cannons on the generator complex's external catwalks, the shade turrets stationed along the base of the complex, and by jackal snipers.

Skirmishers were flitting from rock to rock in front of the complex, peppering our positions with needler shards and plasma charges. A handful of jackal footsoldiers and a group of Elites were reinforcing them. I thanked the stars that there weren't any Hunter pairs defending the area.

At least, not yet…

I found Cajun and Pyro behind one of the rock formations, huddled with five other marines, firing at the Covies in front of the complex. Even as I joined them, one of the marines went down, half her skull blasted away by a plasma overcharge.

"Charlie Foxtrot!" I shouted to my squadmates.

"_Charlie Foxtrot!_" Pyro nodded in agreement.

We couldn't stay here. If we stayed where we were, we would get overwhelmed—from the couple of glances I had gotten of the generator complex, I could see more and more Covie reinforcements hurrying into the area from the other side of the shield, where we had no forces. Whatever we were facing now, it would soon get a lot worse.

"Private!" I hollered over to a nearby marine who was hunkered down behind a disabled warthog. "Snap off one of the mirrors and toss it over!"

I had tried edging around one of the creases of the rock formation we were hiding behind so that I could get a good look at what I was shooting at, but an almost perfectly-aimed needle rifle shot discouraged me.

No matter…I was thinking of a plan.

"_Gunny!_" the Private had successfully removed one of the warthog's mirrors. He tensed up, then threw it towards me with all his strength, quickly ducking back down before the responding barrage of plasmafire had a chance to vaporize him.

I caught the mirror and returned to my spot at the edge of the rock formation. I set the mirror down on the ground and carefully edged it out so that I could see what lay around the rocks. I moved it painfully slowly, so that the jackal sharpshooters wouldn't spot the movement and respond accordingly.

More shouts and orders could be heard further on behind us. I didn't look, but it sounded like more marines were dismounting so that they could join us in this hellhole.

Looking at the mirror, I could see a good portion of the part of the generator complex that was facing us. There were half a dozen jackal snipers scattered amongst the tier platforms, as well as a slightly larger number of plasma cannon emplacements.

Even as I watched, one of the jackal snipers suddenly toppled off of the energy platform it was perched on, blood gushing from the bullet hole in its chest. Someone must have taken it out with a BR55—a sniper rifle's round would have done a lot more damage.

Regardless of the weapon used to do the deed, it got the jackals' attention. They all shifted their aim to one side. I could see the muzzles of their beam rifles flashing and steaming as they opened fire.

I was no supersoldier—I wouldn't be able to take out all five in one go. I could probably nab at least two, though… I picked two jackals for targets—the one on the second-highest tier of the generator complex—there were five tiers in all—and the one to its left and below it.

I gazed at my targets in the mirror for several more seconds, committing to memory everything I could about their exact positioning, their stances, their rates of fire, and their surroundings. I took a deep breath, counted to three under my breath, then I took a step around the edge of the rock formation, sinking to a knee and taking aim through the scope.

I had studied the position of the jackal snipers and the overall height of the complex itself to give myself a rough estimate of the angle which I should aim my rifle. Don't think that this was like magically knowing how to compute angles and trajectories through my mind at the speed of light—it was simply the culmination of over ten years of killing Covies with a sniper rifle. There's no better calculator than roughly thirty years of hard experience.

As it was, I aimed too high, so I had to bring my rifle down a few notches. I heard a needler spike break against the rock not too far away from my head, but I didn't react in the slightest. I centered the crosshairs onto the head of my first target, squeezing the trigger without any ado.

Without even checking to see if my first kill was a success—which is usually a _huge_ no-no in the sniping business, but I was under a good deal of pressure, here—I knocked my aim down a tier and fired at the second sniper. That second shot was more gut instinct than anything else—I don't even remember sighting it with my scope.

I pulled back behind the rock formation as the particle beams started drilling into the ground right where I had been standing. One of them struck the mirror, completely shattering it. No matter…I had already gotten the general locations of the other sharpshooters. It was going to be doubly hard, now, though, because the jackals knew my position. Time for a little game.

"Pyro!" I shouted over to my one squadmate, who was busy slotting another rocket into his SPNKr. "I need a favor from you!"

"Yeah, what?"

"Run over to that boulder!" I pointed at a large rock a few meters away.

"Wha…you crazy, man? Those buzzard snipers'll shoot my ass off if I-"

"No, they'll _try_ to shoot your ass off!" I corrected him. "They'll be dead before they even get a chance to aim!"

"How can you be so sure that-"

"_Run to the fucking rock, Pyro!_"

"Oh, _fuuuuuuu_-" Pyro sprinted out from behind the rock formation, screaming profanity at the top of his lungs as a trio of particle beams drilled into the ground. A plasma cannon opened up on him as well, filling the air around him with plasma as he dove for the rock.

I was already aiming back at those jackals even before their first shots hit the ground. Just after they fired, my first shot caught the first jackal in the neck, taking off its head. My second shot gave the next jackal a third eye right in the middle of its forehead. My third shot, I'm ashamed to say, was rather rushed, and so it only took off the last jackal's arm.

While that hadn't been a kill shot, it was definitely the next best thing—jackals were pretty much good only for long to mid-range sharpshooting…and they really couldn't do that anymore if they were missing an arm.

"Scratch five buzzards…" I murmured, ejecting my current mag and sliding a fresh one in.

"What the _fuck,_ Scar?" Pyro screamed over to me, his voice nearly high-pitched and squeaky from the waterfalls of adrenaline that were no doubt roaring through his system.

"What?"

"You fucking call that _dead before they even get a chance to aim?_"

"They were!" I argued, backing away from the rock formation and taking cover behind a pair of destroyed warthogs. "Those were reflex shots! They saw movement, so they just opened fire out of reflex without actually taking time to aim! That's how jackals fight; they may be good sharpshooters, but that doesn't mean they're good snipers!"

"Oh, so you're suddenly an expert on buzzard psychology, now? What if one of them got lucky, huh? You ever consider that?"

I hesitated, finding myself without a really good answer to that one. Finally, I just shrugged and said, "Well, they _didn't,_ so why don't we bury the hatchet and destroy that complex?"

There had been other jackal sharpshooters amongst the rock formations nearer to the generator complex, but the 12th Regiment's sharpshooters seemed to have handled them while I was cleaning up the complex itself, as I could no longer hear or see any long-range weaponsfire coming from them.

An infantry captain made his way past our position, getting marines onto their feet and moving forward. I could see what the officers were trying to do—they could see that the Covies were bringing in reinforcements from the other side of the energy shield. We had to move forward before the Covie defense became invincible.

All we really needed was to shut down the energy shield and let our armor in, and that would be the end of it. At least with the Covie sharpshooters out of commission, our boys were able to actually shoot back without having to resort to blindfiring around corners.

Cold as it may have sounded, dozens of advancing marines gave the Covie turret gunners something else to aim at, allowing for easier sniping. I took the top of an Elite's head off as it contributed to the rain of plasmafire slamming our guys. The shade turret that it had been operating spun back into its home position before settling dormant into the ground.

I neutralized a few more turrets before the few remaining Covies with fuel rod guns finally realized that there was a sniper taking shots at them. Crackling green bolts of energy started slamming into the warthogs which I had been behind, but I was no longer there.

Snipers never stayed in the same place. During firefights, I made it a habit to relocate every I burned through a mag. I returned to my old spot behind that rock formation, though I was alone there, this time. Cajun, Pyro, and the other marines had broken cover, joining the advance behind that Captain.

I took a knee and centered my crosshairs on a grunt manning one of the plasma cannons. I felt dissatisfaction as I watched the high-velocity sabot rounds practically tear the little Covie tick in half—I rarely considered grunts worth wasting sniper rounds on when there were more difficult targets present, but a grunt behind a plasma cannon was just as deadly as an Elite doing the same job.

I took out another plasma cannon manned by a grunt before slapping in a fresh mag and slipping my sniper rifle onto the weapons strip on my back. Marines with heavy weapons were beginning to fire back. I saw Cajun take out one of the shade turrets with his grenade launcher, which didn't seem to be too hard—all you really had to do with shade turrets was knock them off their anti-grav stands.

I started jogging forward, pulling my M6D magnum out of my leg holster, priming the firing mechanism.

By now, I think all sense of organization in our attack had been lost. Officers were rallying marines, getting them to move up against the generator complex, but there was no actual organized assault. It was pretty much every man for himself—last one who reached the towers was a rotten egg.

There wouldn't be very much I'd have been able to snipe, anyway, with all the marines so close to the aliens I'd normally be targeting. Any shot I took would endanger friendly lives as well.

I picked my shots with the magnum carefully, firing only at unshielded Covies. Grunts, jackals, skirmishers—one shot to the head with a magnum, and it was lights out. Elites were trickier…always hopping, always moving…I was content to let the guys and girls with assault rifles handle the split-chins.

The few remaining shade turrets opened up on us with a renewed vigor, determined to stop this last assault. A good number of marines went down, howling at the pain of their plasma burns. A good number more went down and were silent.

Several nearby marines tossed frag grenades in the direction of one of the shade turrets. The combined detonations weren't enough to destroy the turret, but they _were_ enough to knock it off its anti-grav pad, sending it rolling away with the remains of its grunt operator still inside.

Another turret had its grunt operator shot out of it. The turret itself wasn't destroyed—simply rendered gunner-less. That quickly changed when a marine hopped into the Covie turret and didn't hesitate to turn it on its former-users. He managed to take out two more shade turrets before an Elite pegged his shade with a plasma grenade. I don't know if he bailed in time or not.

Before I even knew it, we were there, flush against the wall of the generator complex, the smoking ruins of Covenant turrets in flames behind us. There were still a handful of Elites behind cover, taking potshots at us, but we had more marines coming up from behind. We would need them, too—Covie reinforcements were already beginning to creep around the corners of the generator complex.

There were three grav-lifts set on the ground that led up to the second tier of energy catwalks—basically bridges made of shimmering blue light—and platforms. These tiers weren't simply small walkways, though—they were like observation decks, and each one had set of grav-lifts on two opposite sides that led up to the next level.

I never liked stepping into grav-lifts…that sudden feeling of weightlessness and lightheadedness as you were whisked upwards with nothing to grab onto or steady yourself with. The beam of indigo light carried me up to the very edge of the second tier of the complex, where I was pushed forward onto the energy platform.

My boots hit the surface of the platform and gravity instantly took hold of me once more. There were already fifteen or so marines up here, with more coming up the lifts behind me. More still were wiring charges onto the main entrance of the generator complex, getting ready to breach and storm its ground level.

"Good to see you alive, Scar," the familiar voice of the Master Sergeant spoke from behind me. I turned around to see my squad leader stepping onto the energy platform behind me, riding up one of the other grav-lifts. Celt and Cajun were right behind him.

"Likewise, sir," I replied. It was the first time I had seen the Master Sergeant and Celt since we left Bravo Base. "Where's Pyro?"

"He's on the ground, helping the regulars blow the door," the Master Sergeant replied.

More marines stepped up onto the second tier and began moving up. The Master Sergeant led us around the corner. Grunt corpses littered the platforms, riddled with bullets. The marines ahead of us had been busy.

Plasmafire began to hit us from the ground as the Covie reinforcements started to hook around this side of the generator complex to flank our position further on back. Elites began to emerge onto the tier, propelled upwards by more grav-lifts.

"Take out those lifts!" the Master Sergeant bellowed as he opened fire, peppering the lead Elite.

That Elite, a red-armored Major, returned fire, catching an unfortunate marine in the chest with a burst from its plasma repeater.

As more Elites started to reinforce those first three, I grabbed a stun grenade—I didn't have anymore frags—from my belt, primed it, and lobbed it towards those split-chins. "_Flashbang out!_" I warned everyone else so that they averted their eyes before it went off.

A bright flash of white light, followed by a deep ringing in the ears, followed. Had we not looked away, we would have been temporarily blinded and deafened. When I looked back down the side of the complex, those Elites were staggering about, firing blindly into the air. If I activated my helmet's translation system, I still probably wouldn't have been able to understand what they were shouting, though it wasn't very hard to imagine.

We pressed our brief advantage while those split-shins were blind, taking them all out. As we chucked down grenades to the ground and destroyed the grav-lifts on this side of the complex, there was another loud explosion from behind us. That must have been our forces breaching one of the complex's entrances. Shouting and gunfire interspersed with Covie plasmafire could now be heard from inside.

There were two entrances into the complex on this side of the second tier—and no doubt six more identical ones on all the other sides. The third tier above us was a smaller set of platforms with only one smaller entrance into the complex per side—that tier was clearly designed solely for mounting Covie turrets.

"Keep moving up," the Master Sergeant told me and my squadmates. "More regulars are on the way—they can hold down this part of the complex. We need to keep moving up."

The Master Sergeant then ordered a group of marines that were with us to keep moving forward and secure the other side of the second tier. He wanted them to destroy any grav-lifsts on that side of the complex so that more Covies couldn't hop right up into our midst.

There were two grav-lifts on our side of the complex—one that ran up through a circular opening in the next tier above us, and a second one right next to us that did the exact same thing, only it would safely transport its occupants down from the third tier to our level. We wanted the first one.

I stepped into the lift, gritting my teeth as the indigo light pushed me upwards. A green plasma charge seared into the edge of the opening, alerting us to a Covie presence above. The moment I crested through the circular opening, lighting onto the energy platform, I dove to the side, barely managing to avoid the hail of needler shards that was there to greet me.

Celt came up next, already firing his MA5B. He took out the two grunts that had been firing at the opening, then opened fire on the Elite manning the plasma turret mounted on this platform.

The Master Sergeant and another marine had ascended the grav-lift by then, and they peppered the split-chin, making its shields flare up as it deflected the weaponsfire. I fired my magnum, catching the Elite in the abdomen, helping the others take down its shields. Celt finished it off with a burst aimed at its head.

We didn't encounter anymore Elites on this tier—there were only grunts manning what was left of the plasma cannons. We dealt with them easily and silenced the turrets on the third tier before moving up to the fourth.

The fourth tier was even smaller than the third—this was the tier where I had sniped most of those jackal sharpshooters. Skirmishers emerged from the openings that led back into the complex, though, so we didn't have an easy time of it. Skirmishers were as weak as their jackal cousins, but they moved as fast as hummingbirds—targeting them was an absolute headache.

More gunfire could be heard inside the complex as our forces began moving up. As we made our way towards the last grav-lift, I took a peek over the edge of our platform. What I saw was enough to make my heart drop a few inches—Hunter pairs were beginning to pound our corridor on the ground. If we didn't get that shield down pronto, they would cut right through our line and we would be surrounded in this complex. Our boys on the ground needed the support of our armor, and they needed it _now_.

There weren't very many marines with us, anymore—most of the regulars were either fighting their way up the inside of the complex, or were holding down the lower tiers. When we went up to the fifth and final tier, we were backed up by a scant handful of four marines. Eight of us total.

Celt went up first, followed by one of the marines. There was a small exchange of gunfire somewhere up above, and then three grunt corpses sailed past us as they plummeted down towards the ground.

The Master Sergeant went up with the rest of the marines, and I brought up the rear along with Pyro.

This last tier was the largest of the complex's levels—even larger than the second tier. Unlike the lower levels, the top level was a full floor, spanning throughout the entire complex. The lower levels simply circled around the generator complex's reactor, which was set in the center of the structure. The top level followed this pattern, but it also capped off the reactor so that it wasn't exposed to the sky, resulting in a full level.

The interior of this level was similar to the lower levels—an external corridor ringing around the entire outer perimeter of the level, like an internal tier, with the center of the level, beyond the outer corridor, containing the controls for the complex and everything it supplied power to. That was our ticket.

The platforms of the fifth tier were not connected, though. Each side of the fifth tier had an entrance into the complex's interior, and there was a large platform outside each entrance. Each platform was large enough for a wing of banshees to land on.

There were two Elite minors on our platform by the time I emerged from the gav-lift, no doubt alerted to our presence by our weaponsfire. They opened fire, clipping Celt and killing one of the marines.

Another marine tossed a frag between the two split-chins, causing them to dive away. Though they escaped the blast of the grenade, their shields were mostly drained. Blue smoke vented from their armor as it tried to deflect our lead. I helped take one of them down, while the Master Sergeant and Cajun neutralized its partner.

I could see the glow of jackal arm-shields inside the complex, waiting for us to come charging in.

Celt got back onto his feet, limping forward and picking up his rifle.

"How bad is it?" the Master Sergeant asked him.

"I'm fine…wanker just nicked me, nothin' more…" the Irishman growled as he reloaded his weapon.

The Master Sergeant wasn't convinced, but he let it rest.

"We got buzzards on both sides of the entrance!" one of the marines, a yellow-haired lance corporal, reported, jerking back as a plasma overcharge seared through the space where his head had been.

"Cajun!" the Master Sergeant hollered over to the Louisianan, gesturing to the entrance. "Take one side! Scar, see what you can do with the other!"

While Cajun reloaded his launcher and started to fire grenades at the jackals on one side of the entrance, I took a knee and slowly edged further and further to the side, gradually bringing the first jackal to the right of the entrance into my sights.

I activated the M6D's scope mechanism, which flickered onscreen on my HUD. When that small, little blue targeting reticule hovered over the little notch in the side of the jackal's shield—its one weak spot—I fired. The slug caught the jackal in the side, forcing it back several steps and causing it to displace its shield, exposing its entire body to me. My next shot blew the middle of its chest out.

After a second jackal met the same fate as the first, the other three started edging back around the corner of the corridor.

"Scratch two buzzards!" I reported. "Three more around the corner. Right side clear!"

"Left side clear!" Cajun reported as well.

"Move in," the Master Sergeant ordered. We all filed into the interior of the complex, fanning out as we went. I went with two of the marines around the corner where my jackals had gone, finding them retreating out onto the platform on this side of the complex. Thirty seconds and several spent magazines later, they were all dead.

I was the first to step into the large control room in the center of the complex…and I was also the first to run out of it screaming. A golden-armored zealot was heading up operations in this room—a dozen or so grunts manning different consoles, five Covie Engineers floating around the space, making repairs and performing other menial tasks…and two Elite ultras; the ones that wore the white armor, on either side of the zealot. They would all be trouble.

The zealot looked straight at me and gave a single command in its native tongue—one that I really didn't need my translator to understand. The two ultras drew their energy swords—the twin plasma blades on each weapon hissing into existence. I actually opened fire on the first one, emptying my entire clip into its head and chest as it bounded towards me, but its shields held. I backed out of the room, sliding a new clip into my magnum as I went. A plasma grenade came sailing after me, sticking to the wall near the entrance into the control room.

I dove in one direction, the two marines in the other, and the grenade detonated. The two ultras ran straight through the explosion, heading right for me. I'm not ashamed to say that ran my ass off, probably screaming like a little girl as I went. Against one Elite, I would have been able to dodge and evade until help came, but against _two_ Elites…and _ultras_ at that…

No, bravery wasn't at the top of my priorities right now. Finding more firepower to take these split-chins down _was_.

It was all very anticlimactic, anyway…I was slower than those ultras. They caught up to me just when I reached the nearest corner in the corridor. I could see the Master Sergeant, Cajun, and the third marine trading fire with an Elite major at the other end of the hall, but before I could join them, one of the ultras struck me right between the shoulder blades with its free hand, sending me flying into the wall.

I hit the floor to avoid the first Elite's energy blade, but the second ultra nicked me across the thigh, sending a burning, white-hot pain through my left leg.

By then, Cajun was hurrying towards me, and the two marines I had been with a moment earlier were rushing over from the other direction. I knew that if I didn't do something _now,_ my squadmates would have to circle up after this op and hold a vigil for me. Unacceptable.

"Look away, boys!" I roared as I tore my other stun grenade free and primed it. As the ultras plunged their blades downwards, I struck the stun grenade over my helmet and thrust it up into the ultras' faces. The last thing I saw was a handful of light shining between my gloved fingers before my world became one of complete and utter white, coupled with the loudest ringing I'd ever heard in my life.

I fumbled around, trying to feel my way back to my feet, but it was hopeless. I was trapped in a world of blankness. Slowly, though, my hearing and vision returned, recovering from the effects of the stun grenade. When I came back completely, my vision cleared to reveal two dead ultras right in front of me. One of them had a nearly unrecognizable face from the amount of lead that had been pumped into it. Cajun was pulling his non-regulation hunting knife out of the neck of the other.

"Sons o' bitches ain't so tough when they're nice an' blind," the Louisianan was chuckling.

"Nearly took all the satisfaction out of the whole thing, it was so easy…" one of the marines murmured as he reloaded his MA5B. "_Nearly,_" he added, with a faint grin.

Further on down the hall, the Master Sergeant and the third marine finished off that Elite major. That left only the grunts and the zealot in the control room.

Unfortunately, the zealot decided to come to _us, _nearly catching us off-guard. I had barely gotten to my feet before I heard that familiar roar, followed by the hiss of an activating energy blade. I glanced down the corridor and saw the zealot pounding towards us…holding _two_ energy swords.

"Aw, _shit!_" Cajun dove for his grenade launcher and picked it up, slotting a new batch of grenades into the chamber. The two marines opened fire, but it was to no avail—the zealot's shield sparkled and shimmered, but showed no signs of failing.

I was out of flashbangs, so I wouldn't be able to do to the zealot what I had done to the two ultras. We started backing down the corridor toward the Master Sergeant's position, but the zealot was too fast. He tore right through us, slamming me into one of the walls. One of the marines was also decapitated before he had the chance to duck.

The Master Sergeant opened fire on the zealot, catching its immediate attention. Its mandibles splayed out wide in a guttural roar, it started sprinting towards the Master Sergeant. Celt attempted to stop it, but the zealot slashed the Irishman across the chest as it blew past.

"_Celt!_" Cajun shouted, sprinting towards our downed squadmate.

"I'm fine, I'm _fine!_" the Irishman snapped. "Jesus H. _Christ_; if you stupid shites be wantin' me dead so badly, _stop bollixing it up and do it right!_" he shouted in the general direction of the zealot.

"Don' move, buddy!" Cajun ordered Celt as he stood up. "We'll get a medic up 'ere once this fucker is a cold cut!"

The marine the Master Sergeant was with got hurled into one of the walls and slumped over, unconscious. The Master Sergeant, now alone, had nowhere to go. He emptied the rest of his clip into the zealot, but the golden-armored Elite sheared his assault rifle in half with a single slice.

Undeterred, the Master Sergeant quickly drew his magnum and opened fire on one of the zealot's hands, forcing it to drop one of its swords. The two blades fizzled out before the sword hit the ground. The zealot struck again, but the Master Sergeant managed to duck under the strike and catch the zealot's arm with both hands, trying with all his strength to hold it back.

The Master Sergeant was no Spartan, however, so he only lasted for about two seconds. Those two seconds saved his life, though. Cajun reached the zealot just then and struck it in the back with the butt of his launcher. That blow took out the zealot's shields, but didn't faze the Elite in the slightest.

As the zealot turned around, I hurried after Cajun in the direction of the zealot and scooped up its fallen energy sword hilt. As I picked up its discarded weapon, the zealot growled again and backhanded Cajun across the face, sending him flying almost into me. He landed a foot to my left, dazed and groaning.

"Scar, use its sword!" the Louisianan grunted as he struggled to get up.

The zealot noticed me with its blade and started sprinting towards me and Cajun, completely forgetting about the Master Sergeant for the moment.

I fumbled with the sword hilt, trying to activate it. "Where's the goddamn _on_ switch for this thing?" I shouted, failing to find how the sword was supposed to be turned on. If I hadn't had an angry zealot charging straight into me, I probably would have worked it out…but the circumstances weren't all that kind, right now.

"_Scar!_" Cajun howled as the zealot closed in.

"_Fuck!_" I swore as the zealot drew back its sword, ready to skewer me. Unable to activate the piece of junk, I did the next best thing and chucked it straight at the charging zealot's face. It struck the golden-armored Elite in the head, knocking it off-balance and ruining its strike, ensuring that I went un-skewered for the time being.

As the zealot started to get back up to his feet, I was shoved aside suddenly. The last remaining marine—there were still two marines left, but one of them was still unconscious—stepped forward and racked the pump of his M90 shotgun. He then proceeded to empty a shell straight into the zealot's face right as the Elite moved to disembowel him with its sword.

The zealot fell back without another sound and hit the floor, twitching occasionally, half its face pulped to a bloody mess of gore and armor shards.

Every part of me ached. I just wanted to curl up and die for a few days before doing anything else…but we weren't finished here.

"Good shot, kid," I grunted to the young marine with the shotgun, who was still frozen in the position he had been in when he blasted the zealot. He had probably seen just how close he had come to getting sliced in half.

"Thank you, Gunny," the marine replied in a high, strained voice before going on to say, "…I think I may have pissed myself."

"Tha's alright, Private," Cajun clapped the young marine on the shoulder. "Ain't every day ya get the chance ta kill a zealot."

We wasted the grunts in the control room, but left the Engineers alone. They weren't any threat, and I wasn't in the mood to waste ammunition. As we converged on the command console in the control room, I could hear marines out on the platforms of our tier—our forces must be making progress up the complex…though our men still on the ground were still no doubt getting the living shit knocked out of them.

The Master Sergeant ordered the Private to link back up with those forces and get a medic up here for Celt and the unconscious marine. "Good luck to you, son!" he hollered after the young marine as he jogged out of the room.

"Uh…" Cajun took off his helmet, his brow furrowed in a deep frown as he scrutinized the command console that the zealot had been operating. "What button do we push?"

"Hell if I know…" I shrugged, a similar frown on my face as well.

"Start pushing them all," the Master Sergeant ordered, bringing his fist down on one of the purple icons. When nothing happened, he pressed the icon next to it. I joined the Master Sergeant while Cajun ran over to one of the control room's entrances so that he could see the energy shield outside.

The Master Sergeant and I pressed two more icons at the same time when Cajun suddenly shouted, "There it is! You guys did it; the shield is down!"

Not bothering to wonder which button had done the deed, the Master Sergeant and I joined Cajun in the corridor and headed out onto one of the energy platforms outside. Sure enough, the pulsing blue energy shield had vanished. Even as we watched, the remainder of the warthogs in our assault force poured into the area, reinforced by the scorpions and dragons.

The attacking Hunter pairs were shredded, along with the other Covies around them as our tanks started to open fire.

A shadow suddenly darkened the entire area as our armor pushed the Covie reinforcements back. All of us looked up to the sky to see the source of this distortion. One of the frigates that had provided air support for us earlier on in the offensive was executing a shallow dive towards one of the three Covenant Spires. I saw the name _Grafton_ on the lateral armor of the frigate.

I could clearly see the other two Spires from the bright glows of the energy shields, which would be disabled once we blew the reactor of this place. But the Spire that the _Grafton_ was heading for had no shields…they had been disabled, somehow.

"Those Army troopers must've been able to storm that Spire and manually disable it," the Master Sergeant surmised, shielding his eyes as he watched the _Grafton_ reach the nadir of its dive.

"Kudos to them," Cajun grunted.

There was a bright flash of light and a loud _BOOM_ as the _Grafton_ fired its MAC cannon. That was highly unusual—firing MAC cannons in-atmosphere like that was forbidden, unless direct authorization was given from FLEETCOM, which rarely happened. Today, though, FLEETCOM seemed to have made an exception.

I couldn't see the Spire's destruction from our vantage point, but I saw the smoke and debris from the explosion quite clearly. Marines on all levels of the complex who had witnessed the massive airstrike were whooping, cheering, and trading high-fives.

I glanced over at Cajun and the Master Sergeant, taking my helmet off and running a hand through my trimmed red hair. "Some fireworks," I grinned.

"We blow the reactor, and we get to see 'em twice more," the Master Sergeant smiled as well. I missed the second explosion because I was still looking at my squadmates. Cajun's and the Master Sergeant's eyes widened as I heard a massive explosion coming from the same direction. The sound of this explosion was different, through…it certainly hadn't been a MAC cannon.

When I whipped around, I was paralyzed with shock. The _Grafton_ was in flames and nosediving towards the ground, a bluish-white energy beam searing through its hull. The beam eventually faded and the _Grafton_ broke apart in mid-air—its engines detonating separately and its fore vanishing below our line of sight, crashing into the Badlands.

We were so stunned that it took us almost fifteen seconds to realize that the sky above us was no longer a sky…it had suddenly turned into the underbelly of a massive Covenant ship. It was no corvette or cruiser—it was _massive_…roughly thirty kilometers in length, maybe a little less. It covered our entire side of the Maglód Caldera and a good portion of the Badlands…so large, that it seemed surreal. The energy projector on its underbelly was still glowing white as it cooled down from firing the shot that had sent the _Grafton_ to the grave.

The Covies had had a cloaked supercarrier hovering over us this whole fucking time...it suddenly made sense. We now know where the troops teleporting into those Spires were coming from.

That was when my heart sank to the region of my stomach as I realized what the destruction of the _Grafton_ meant. "The Captain was on that ship…" I murmured, suddenly remembering that Delucci had been in command of that particular frigate, coordinating the aerial theatre of the offensive.

A cold silence settled over the three of us. The Master Sergeant deftly removed his helmet and sank down to a knee, his head bowed as he murmured a prayer in Hebrew. "_Yisgadal v'yiskadash sh'may rabo_..."

"Rest in peace, Captain…" Cajun sighed, letting his helmet fall to the energy floor.

We went on and were able to destroy the generator complex, ultimately fulfilling our objective…but the significance of doing so had been greatly reduced. Our long and bloody struggle to reach and storm this place had pretty much been in vain. With a supercarrier hanging over the area, the Covies would be able to replace everything we destroyed in hours.

After the generator complex went up in flames, we all mounted up—climbing into any of the warthogs that hadn't been destroyed, while everyone else was loaded into falcons and pelicans. We then pulled out of the Badlands before the armada of inbound Covie dropships had a chance to fry us.

We returned to Bravo Base in complete silence, but that entire place was being packed up as well. My squad—minus Celt, who was medevaced to a miltiary hospital somewhere nearby—was loaded into a pelican on the airfield, which promptly took off, heading southwest.

We had failed, here. We threw a lot of lives into retaking Viery, and we failed. The Covies had a hell of a lot more troops here than we could have imagined…and now the prospect of a quick victory was out of the question.

Hell…the prospect of victory at _all_ was beginning to look pretty grim…


	54. IV Chapter 54: Relocation

Chapter Fifty-Four: Relocation

**August 18, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

"Hey, hey, hey!" Cajun spotted the pelican first as it approached the makeshift landing pad on the roof of the Novaliches Plaza Mall. "Here he comes!"

The pelican landed on the pad, its rear hatch hissing open. A dozen military personnel—mostly marines, with a few Army troopers and a lone ODST—clambered out and headed for the roof access in order to report to their superior officers below. They had all been wounded in Viery and were just now being allowed to rejoin their units...or what was left of them.

I had been taken in to a medic as well, along with the Master Sergeant, after we pulled out of Viery—I had to get my shoulder dislocated again and then properly reset. It had been knocked out of its shoulder joint when my warthog had crashed after passing through the EMP field of that generator complex's energy shield. I then had to get my leg fixed up from where that zealot had slashed me. The Master Sergeant also had a few cracked ribs from our encounter with that same zealot.

But the one who had really gotten the butt-end of our offensive through the Viery Badlands was Celt. Just as we started to storm the top level of that Covie generator complex, he took two plasma charges to the side, but was able to keep on going. Then, during our fight with the zealot, a blow from an energy sword had nearly laid open his chest. He nearly died that day...the only reason he made it was because the wave of marines that came up to reinforce us had a medic with them, and there also happened to be a falcon nearby that could medevac him.

And now, six days later, Celt had finally returned. He said his farewells to two of the marines that had been in the pelican with him as they went straight downstairs. Spotting us, he gave a quick wave and jogged over to where we were waiting.

After the marines and troopers were off the pelican, the platoon of marines stationed around the landing pad started guiding the line of civilians into the troop bay. Once it was full, the marines halted the line, allowing the pelican to take off, bound for a transport craft somewhere nearby.

"Had enough of lyin' around on a hospital cot, you lazy shit?" Pyro chuckled as he clapped Celt on the shoulder.

"You have no idea..." Celt muttered. The fact that he didn't return the verbal barb to Pyro was a testament to how glad he had to be feeling to get out of that hospital. I knew from experience that field hospitals were one of the most miserable places on the front line, and spending too much time in one could drive a man insane.

"Why the long face, Celt?" Apache asked the Irishman as we started heading through the throng of civilians towards the roof access stairway reserved for military personnel. "Thought you would've been happy to be out of that place."

"Ye haven't heard?" Celt sounded surprised. "The flyboys have been talkin' about that fuckfest up in orbit nonstop; you seriously haven't heard about it?"

"We've been a bit busy, lately," I grunted, gesturing at the line of civilians waiting for evacuation as we headed into the stairwell, descending into the lower levels of the mall.

I wasn't exaggerating; we _had_ been busy lately. This mall was one of the three main evac zones in the city of Quezon—the capital of the northwestern province of Kolontár. We had been sent here after the disaster at Viery to assist in the evacuation. It was also the rally point for many military units in the area.

We had been pulling shifts with other squads of marines and ODSTs for the past four days, keeping the mall evac zone running efficiently. Although it had been kept a closely-guarded secret when WINTER CONTINGENCY had been declared earlier in the month, it was kind of hard to keep the Covenant invasion a secret after we practically blew up the entire Viery Subcontinent trying to get rid of them

When the population caught wind of the Covenant presence on Reach, they nearly exploded with panic, especially when Covie corvettes began popping up and frying different parts of the planet. So far, most of Eposz—the largest continent of Reach, which we were currently on—had gone untouched, but I knew that that wasn't going to be the case for very much longer.

We had been running a double-edged evacuation, really. We had been working to get the citizens of Quezon and its surrounding counties _out_ of here, onto civilian transports, and into slipspace. At the same time, we had been evacuating all of the present military personnel farther south, towards New Alexandria, which was our next rally point.

We made our way through the upper level of the Novaliches Plaza Mall, staring at the long, winding line of civilians as we went. There was another wave of pelicans coming in to collect more civilians in about three minutes, but even so…I had no idea how we'd be able to evac so many people. No doubt there were marines and troopers at the other evac zones thinking the exact same thing.

One side of the upper tier was reserved for military personnel, so that we wouldn't have to fight our way through a crowd of thousands just to get back outside. A sizable force of policemen and soldiers was in place to prevent the crowd from spilling into this reserved zone. If the crowd ever started to get rowdy, the soldiers' weapons were always loaded with TTR rounds.

We headed down to the security office, where we had been ordered to go once Celt arrived. When we walked in, we were greeted by Lieutenant Commander Angiers, one of our Spec Ops unit's ONI handlers. The Master Sergeant had had limited contact with him ever since Viery went to shit, but this was the first time we had seen him face to face since our arrival on Reach.

"Lieutenant Commander, sir," the Master Sergeant drew up his arm in a hasty salute. The rest of us followed suit.

"At ease," Angiers returned the salute and gestured for us to relax. "And it is _Commander,_ now. Captain Gibson has seen fit to promote me…though I wish it had been under different circumstances."

A heavy silence settled in on the room.

Captain Delucci had been attached to this squad long before I even joined it, fourteen years ago. Though he was a high-ranking officer, and an ONI spook to boot, he had been alright by our standards. He had grown to tolerate our squad's eccentricities over the years until he gradually became more and more like one of us.

Every time I thought of him, now, I always saw that freeze-frame moment when I turned around and saw the _Grafton_ in flames. I think we've gone much too long without losing anyone close…but the mere thought of _Delucci_ being the one to buy the farm had never even crossed my mind. He had just seemed…I don't know…untouchable?

Yeah, that's it. Untouchable. Not necessarily tough or battle-hardened, but untouchable.

I mean, take someone like the Master Sergeant—he's about as battle-hardened and war-torn as you can get. Born in the state of Israel on Earth and raised on Harvest, he's been in the armed forces as long as I have and a member of the law enforcement agencies long before that. He survived so much, been through so many engagements. He's tough as nails…but I've fought alongside him for fourteen years…long enough to know that he could easily die tomorrow. He was tough as nails, but not untouchable.

Captain Delucci had seemed untouchable…always a presence in our lives, waiting for us after every battle and before every deployment, constantly feeding intel that we needed to stay alive, always leading and guiding us through our ops…to have that suddenly be _gone_ was like waking up without one of your limbs. It felt wrong…wrong, and empty.

And the worst part was that it was only the beginning. This wasn't going to be like one of our ops where we drop in, complete our objective, and return to our cruiser. We weren't dropping in, we had no clear objective other than survive, go where the officers tell you, and _kill any Covies you see,_ and we had no cruiser—the _Breath of Winter_ had left the Epsilon Eridani System, bound for some remote sector at the very edge of UNSC space for some sort of transport mission.

And this wasn't like Verus III, or Salamis III, or any of the other battles I had fought in that involved retreating from a planet before getting glassed—this was _Reach;_ there was no falling back from here. Well, except to Earth…but it didn't take a genius to figure out that this planet was about to become a huge grave for a lot of people in the near future.

And if the Covies smashed Reach, how would we succeed on Earth where we failed here? We couldn't, and deep down, I think we all knew it.

I rubbed my temples wearily. Someday, I think I'll spend so much time deep in my own thoughts that I'll eventually get lost and never come back out. But not today… I forced myself to snap out of it. Never mind how we'll fare on Earth if and when—God forbid—the Covies find it…right now, we've got a mall full of civilians we need to evacuate.

We'll get through this one step at a time.

The silence after Lieutenant Commander—no, make that _Commander_ Angiers mentioned Delucci's untimely death lasted for roughly ten seconds, but it felt a lot longer. After our little moment of silence, Angiers cleared his throat and went on.

"I will be serving as your handler from here on out," the Commander informed us. "Captain Delucci had a habit of keeping you informed about what has been happening around you…I intend to continue that tradition for the short time that we are together. I'll start by telling you that the supercarrier we encountered in Viery was destroyed in orbit four days ago."

That got a mixture of reactions from us. Raised eyebrows, low grunts of surprise, shifting postures, etc. Me personally, I just felt a sinking feeling in my gut. Angiers had started with the good news, which could only mean that whatever he told us afterwards would likely be…less pleasant.

As usual, those thrice-damned instincts of mine were correct. "Only hitch with this is that right after that supercarrier went up in flames, an entire Covenant fleet emerged from slipspace. As of now, our orbital defenses are holding them back...but that won't be the case for very much longer."

Another silence settled over us, broken only by Virgin grunting, "Well, I guess it was only a matter of time…"

"Hey, it ain't like it's the _first_ time we've seen the end-a the world, eh?" Cajun reasoned in a display of optimism that was extremely unlike him.

"It's the first time that the 'world' was Reach…" Celt muttered, instantly killing Cajun's optimism.

"I am not going to waste your time with the details," the Commander concluded, rising back up to his feet. "The Covies are beginning to hit the outskirts of New Alexandria. We have several AA hubs set up around the perimeter of this city which should keep the Covies out for now...but they're sending in infantry to attack those positions. If they fall, then there'll be nothing standing between the Covenant horde and the citizens of New Alexandria but a division of marines and a whole lot of empty air."

"What about extraction?" Pyro asked. "I'd feel a bit better goin' in with an exit plan in mind."

"Once we get the evacuation transports out of New Alexandria, the frigate _Stalwart Dawn_ will be onsite to extract all military personnel…or at least, as many as possible."

We all knew that not everyone would get out of New Alexandria alive. We would probably be able to get a good amount of the military forces out…but I was predicting heavy civilian casualties. Stragglers, children, homeless people…when the Covies broke through the outer perimeter—not if, _when_—there was only so much the Army and Marines could do to protect the local populace. Once that happened, it would basically be every man for himself.

"And our assignment?" the Master Sergeant asked next. "One of those hubs?"

Commander Angiers gave a single nod. "We're sending you to C/S Three Actual, one of the key command stations for controlling those AA and artillery emplacements. You'll be joining a company of marines who are already stationed there."

"A company?" I could sense the Master Sergeant arching an eyebrow in surprise under that opaque faceplate of his even as he spoke. "That's all we get for this 'highly-important' command center?"

"Indeed," Angiers wasn't fazed in the slightest. "Some of the less important positions are being defended by squads and platoons. We've been spread a little thin, lately…but our forces in Manassas, Ehztergom, Szurdök, and here in Quezon may be able to reinforce you."

"If we pull those troops, how would we be able to evacuate those cities in time, then?" Virgin queried, raising another valid point.

The Commander's answer was short, direct, and it reminded me without a doubt that he was an ONI spook. "We won't."

* * *

We were loaded up into a pelican fifteen minutes later. I stood at the edge of the open aft hatch as we soared up into the sky, the chilly wind of the lower atmosphere flooding the troop bay. The change in temperature did not affect me all that much—my armor kept me warm.

Just as we ascended past the cloudline, I took a step back and sat at the outermost seat on one of the benches, right next to Virgin.

"Something on your mind, Scar?" the tech specialist asked after the first fifteen minutes or so of silence. I had, for the most part, been staring out at the late afternoon sky as we flew south. I loved how the sunlight caught the clouds, illuminating them like an enormous, drawn-out, amber rug of fluff. If I jumped out of the pelican, it almost looked as if I'd be able to walk on them. What an experience that would be...

"Scar's _always_ got somethin' on 'is mind," Celt muttered. "I think he spends more time in his mind than his body, come ta think of it..."

"What, is it a crime now to watch the goddamn clouds?" I grumbled, straightening back up, not in the mood to be psychoanalyzed.

"You watch them clouds closely, Scar," Celt advised me. "They're probably some o' the last clouds ye'll ever see. Give it a week; there'll be nothin' here but smoke, fire, and glass—and _us_ along with it."

"Alright, Celt, enough of the pessimism or I'll put you on suicide watch," the Master Sergeant interjected.

Celt wasn't fazed, though. "Ye should be puttin' us _all_ on suicide watch, Mister Master Sergeant, sir...we're flying towards it."

That got a mirthless chuckle out of several of us. "He's gotta point," Cajun hummed.

"Even if Reach is destined to become our grave, I for one am in no mood to keep talking about my own demise," Apache declared. "So put a cork in it, please."

"Why don't we combine prayers, then?" Cajun chuckled. "You pray to your great Apache ancestor spirits, Sarge'll get in touch with Yahweh, an' the rest of us'll snag God. Between them three, we should be taken care of."

Apache's expression didn't change. "I'm Lakota, jackass, and I'm Agnostic."

"And me?" I chimed in. "You forgot me."

"No, Scar, you dirty heathen, he didn't forget you; he skipped you," Pyro's grin widened, displaying white teeth.

"Fair enough." I smiled wryly at the little jab. It wasn't the first time I had been ribbed for my lack of religion; it had become one of those things that people just joke about over the years. Hell, these guys could probably get away with just about anything on me.

We made the rest of the flight in relative silence. It took us another forty-five to fifty minutes to reach our destination. As we descended below the cloudline, the hazy urban sprawl of New Alexandria was laid out below us. The city had been built in a caldera-like gap in the middle of the mountains which surrounded it. The sky was a deep amber tinged with red...a somewhat unnatural color for early evening, but these were unnatural times for Reach.

It was different from when we had first arrived on Reach, several weeks ago. Physically, New Alexandria was exactly the same…but, somehow, the drastically-altered mood of the people in the city made it look…different. Almost like a bustling castle back in the Medieval times compared to that same castle right before it's about to get attacked.

Yes, that was it…it was like the city was holding its breath. I hope it had taken a deep one.

We flew across New Alexandria and moved out beyond the outskirts of the city, heading for one of the larger mountains about two or so klicks south of the metropolis. It wasn't a traditional mountain in the sense that it comprised of slopes on all sides which ran all the way up to the top to form a peak. Instead, it was more of a large mesa, with a flatter apex.

There were AA and artillery emplacements scattered all throughout these mountains, but our prize was on top of that mesa—a small, gray bunker built into the rocks, flanked by a pair of scorpions.

The pilot brought us in for a landing, hovering several feet over the ground, waiting for us to disembark. "This is your stop, gentlemen! Godspeed!"

"On your feet! Let's move, let's move, _let's move!_" the Master Sergeant got us all up and moving. We gathered up our gear and filed out of the pelican, hopping down to the grassy earth below.

Once we were all off, the dropship's thrusters flared and it soared back up into the sky, presumably off to ferry some other group of soldiers to their positions. Bent over a tad bit and shielding his face from the cloud of dust the pelican kicked off as it flew away, a marine officer with the silver bars of a 1st Lieutenant on his shoulders and helmet came forward to greet us.

The Master Sergeant introduced himself, giving his name and unit.

"Lieutenant Chesnick; Echo Company, 481st Marines," the Lieutenant returned the Master Sergeant's salute and took a step back, observing the rest of us. "I'll admit, when I asked Division for reinforcements, I wasn't expecting this…but I'm definitely not complaining. Extra guns are extra guns, and they're always welcome."

"That's good logic, sir," the Master Sergeant replied. "I'll need a sit-rep, and then I wish to survey our position."

"Right away," the Lieutenant turned on his heel and started heading off towards one of the perimeters, the Master Sergeant right behind him.

"Been a while since we've been on defense detail," I commented as we headed towards the bunker to load up on ammunition while shedding any our unneeded equipment.

"Not since Paris IV," Virgin nodded in agreement.

"I doubt that really even counts," Apache shrugged. "We were just retreating and keeping the Covenant off our asses, then…now, we're holding our ground, but we can't fall back."

"Oh, yes we can," Celt interjected, ducking into the entrance of the command bunker. "All of ya know just as well as me that New Alexandria is fucked. All we're doin' here is keepin' the bastards out as long as we can."

The interior of the command bunker was much like any other command center I've visited. The whole thing was being operated by a subroutine of an AI operating inside the city, but it was also possible to manually control the AA batteries which this nerve center had command over. We wouldn't be doing that, however.

The command center occupied the subterranean level of the bunker. On the ground level was the auxiliary controls for the missile battery mounted on top of the bunker—which would be used in close quarters against anything trying to make an aerial assault against this position. There was also a single portable LAU-65D missile pod mounted on a tripod up on the roof, which could be manned by a trooper to fend off incoming phantoms that would no doubt try to land troops right onto the bunker or behind our perimeters.

There were also a couple of living spaces on the ground level, no doubt for the personnel of this station—when it was being manned, naturally—to live and sleep in during the duration of their stay. I had a feeling that we'd be using them for wounded men and women pretty soon.

Apache and the other medics weren't going to be idle.


	55. IV Chapter 55: Mountain Vacation

Chapter Fifty-Five: Mountain Vacation

**August 19, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

The teenager in the picture had a lopsided grin on his face. He was thin and handsome, with unruly reddish-brown hair, a straight nose, thin mouth, and large, gray eyes. I looked up into the mirror and saw a completely different face.

The reddish-brown hair had been shorn to acceptable military length. A beard now covered the lower half of that face, which had become weathered and scarred over the years. A straight line of discolored scar tissue ran from the forehead, through the left eye, and all the way down to the chin. The only thing that really hadn't changed were the eyes…but even they were still different, in their own way. The younger eyes had a mischievous gleam to them, while the older eyes simply looked weary and full.

It was hard to believe that the boy in the picture was the same person as the man I saw in the mirror.

_Me_.

I had always kept a picture of myself right before I had joined the Harvest militia in my helmet, right underneath my picture of Devereux. I don't know why I kept it…maybe to remind me of what I once was…that I wasn't always a soldier…I don't know.

But on the rare occasion that I took it out to look at it, it was remarkable how much I had changed from the wily, mild-mannered sixteen-year-old militia recruit into the cynical, drunken old bastard I am today. Even though I'm still south of fifty years old, when I looked into a mirror, I saw an old man. Even when I didn't have a mirror to look into, people would always call me _old man_. And even when I was alone...I _felt_ like an old man.

Kind of depressing, isn't it?

I finished washing my face, took a quick piss into the toilet, then put my armor back on and walked out into the corridor, exchanging nods with a pair of marines who were walking in the opposite direction.

Celt and Virgin were in one of the living spaces, along with half a dozen other marines. Most of them were lying asleep—it was barely 0500 hours, and they wouldn't rotate back onto the perimeter for another three hours—but two of them were awake and playing Celt and Virgin in a game of poker.

I helped myself to a seat at the table, but I didn't join in the game. It wasn't real poker, anyway; we never had any money to gamble with, so we usually used bullets…but using ammunition in a game of poker at a time like _now_ would require unparalleled amounts of stupidity.

"You take that shower you wanted so badly?" Virgin asked me as I sat down.

I gave him a look. "Are you kidding? I just washed up what's left of my face…showers are for _after_ the battles."

"Really?" Virgin arched an eyebrow, unconvinced. "You fought through all five years at Harvest; you couldn't have gone all that time without showering."

"You're right," I admitted. "I took fourteen showers during that battle. Three a year, except for '29; I only took _two_ that year. Counted every one of them."

Virgin opened his mouth, the closed it, obviously having nothing to really say in response to that other than, "_Oh_."

"What the hell are you guys doing up so early, anyway?" I asked, leaning forward and resting on my elbows. "It's not even five o'clock, yet."

"Couldn't sleep," Gunnery Sergeant Huxley, the older of the two marines shrugged, tugging at one of the corners of his mustache. "Got skewered by a stealth Elite a long time ago when I was sleeping in a foxhole…ain't had a full night's sleep since then."

"That'll do it," I conceded.

"So tell me if I'm wrong, but I heard a few members of your outfit served on Harvest?" Huxley asked as he traded in a pair of cards.

"You're lookin' at one of 'em," Celt nodded in my direction.

"You served on Harvest?" the marine Gunnery Sergeant asked me.

"I did," I nodded. "Our Master Sergeant and our medic were also there, though on different fronts."

"Where'd you serve?"

"Me? I was on the northwestern front…we pushed through the ruins of-"

"-the ruins of Utgard," Huxley finished at the same time as me. "Get outta town! I was there with the 714th Regiment."

"Which company?"

"Charlie."

"Ah, damn…I was with Delta…" I sighed. "Too bad…I enjoy meeting familiar faces from the old days."

"Well, we probably _did_ meet; we just don't remember anymore," Huxley shrugged. "Twenty-three years is a long time."

"Done reminiscing like a pair of old retreads?" Virgin quipped, picking up a card from the pile and reshuffling his hand.

I didn't have a chance to reply, because the Master Sergeant barged into the room a second later. "_On your feet, boys!_" he barked, tipping the single marine who wasn't roused by his entrance out of his cot with the toe of his boot, whilst all the others got up and moving.

Most of the marines had gone to sleep with their armor on—somewhat uncomfortable, but on a line post like this one where the key to mobilization would be the speed at which reserve forces could get to the trenches, wearing armor to bed was a custom.

Celt, Virgin, Huxley, and the young lance corporal who had also been playing poker all dropped their card, sprang to their feet, and grabbed their weapons.

I stepped over to the wall and picked up my sniper rifle, putting it on my back, and slipped my M6D sidearm into its leg holster. "Celt, you're with me!" I hollered over to the Irishman as we exited the living quarters into the main entrance chamber, where the auxiliary controls for the missile battery up on the roof was located.

We jogged out of the bunker, where we ran back into the Master Sergeant, who was shouting out directions for the marines returning to the lines.

"What's it lookin' like, Sarge?" Celt asked as we made it outside. "How many Elites are we goin' ta be sendin' to see the Lord, today?"

"None!" the Master Sergeant shouted back. "The Covies are being led by Brutes! And they aren't going to see the Lord; they're going to see someone else a bit further down!"

That struck me as odd. Even though I was no expert on the Covenant, it didn't take a sociology whiz to see that the Elites and Brutes didn't exactly get along…from what we had seen over the years, the two Covenant races seemed to have segregated fleets. In battle, we would either fight all Elites, or all Brutes. It was very rare to see both of them on the same world, like this.

But, as I've said time and time again, it wasn't the _why_ that mattered…only the _what_. The Master Sergeant ordered Celt and me to take up positions on the southwestern approach.

The top of this little mesa-like mountain was susceptible in two main places—the southwestern approach, which was basically a moderately-angled ramp running all the way up to the top of this particular mountain. The other was from the north, which was a little bit more rugged and harder to get to—the Covies would have to flank around the entire mountain in order to reach that approach, and as such it wasn't as heavily guarded.

If the northern approach ever came in danger, though, we were perfectly capable of reinforcing it. But for now, our priority was the southwestern approach.

I hopped up onto one of the taller grass-covered rock formations, turning around to help Celt up after me, and went prone. We crawled forward to the edge of the rock formation, which was high enough to give us a sufficient view of most of our defenses, as well as the slopes beyond them…though the darkness of early morning obscured anything not close to the bunker.

It was useless to try to set up spotlights to illuminate the approach, anyway; jackal sharpshooters always took them out every time we tried.

Celt slid up next to me, pulling out his spotter scope and bringing it up to his eye. I activated my VISR's night vision and glanced at the TACMAP, wincing at the number of red dots moving our way.

I peered through my scope, then, and the apprehension I had been feeling quickly melted away.

"Grunts…and lots of 'em," Celt murmured.

I adjusted my sights and watched as the first wave of the short, stubby Covies scurried their way up the incline towards our entrenched marines. "Nothing else, though… I'm not wasting my ammunition on those ticks," I declared, holding my fire.

I rarely ever sniped grunts. The only time I would ever use sniper rounds on them was when they were either manning a turret of some sort, or wielding a fuel rod gun. When it came to common grunt infantry charges, like the one unfolding right now, I let the boys and girls with automatic rifles take care of them.

Someone—probably the Lieutenant—shouted a command, and the entire line opened up on the charging grunts. The front line of Covies was hosed by lead and toppled over like bowling pins. Had I disabled the night vision system of my VISR, it would have been possible to see all the luminous blue blood staining the rocks and grass, glowing in the pre-dawn darkness.

The heavy fifties remained silent as the wave of grunts continued to fight their way uphill. Obviously, their gun crews did not feel like wasting their ammunition on grunts, either. However, if the small Covies got too close, they would probably change their minds. Grunts were individually weak, but in massive numbers they could really make a person sweat.

The green flash of plasma was clearly visible from my vantage point as the charging grunts started firing their plasma pistols. The dim purple glow of needler shards could also be faintly seen, but not as brightly as the plasma charges.

I blocked off most of the general COM chatter so that the only transmissions I would pick up would be high-priority ones. A sniper couldn't afford to be subject to the same distractions as everyone else. We had to be in our own little worlds, shared only with our spotters.

"Buzzard sniper at ten o'clock," Celt reported suddenly. "Range, one hundred yards."

I swung my aim over to the left, scanning the area which Celt had indicated. Sure enough, a purple-white particle beam snapped through the air just a second after I started looking for the sniper. I quickly traced the beam to its source and spotted the jackal squatted in a tree further on down the slope. One well-aimed shot later, the jackal quickly passed into the afterlife.

While the marines in the trenches kept up their fire on the tide of grunts, I took out several more jackals. There hadn't been very many of them, but enough to keep me busy for a little while. Several of them eventually found my position and tried to countersnipe me, making my job a little more difficult. I would have to relocate, soon.

The attack started to peter out once the sun started to rise. As the first tentative rays of light crested the horizon and painted the tips of the trees, as well as the roof of our bunker, less grunts started to throw themselves onto our defenses until there were only a handful of them left, which our infantry quickly picked off. Several more fleeing grunts were shot in the back as they ran, their methane apparatuses detonating in brilliant explosions of bluish-green flame.

The rising sun quickly revealed the carnage in front of us. Dozens, hundreds of grunt corpses were sprawled all over the slopes of the mountainside, stretching all the way back down to the treeline not too far away, where the Covies seemed to be taking cover. I gave a quiet sigh as I swept my gaze over the scene. All those corpses would start to stink up this part of the mountain, and we wouldn't be able to clear them without exposing ourselves to jackal sharpshooters.

The smell would soon be yet another one of the hardships faced by soldiers fighting in trenches...and it was also one of the main reasons why so many of us smoked.

"Well, I'd give us about two hours or so," Celt sighed as he stretched his arms and legs as much as he could while lying down, sliding his spotter scope back into his belt.

"Maybe a little more," I murmured. "They're probably gonna hit us with armor next time, and armor takes longer to mobilize."

Once the _all clear_ was given, we started to relax. I don't mean that we were breaking out the lawn chairs and margaritas, but we weren't tensed to the breaking point any longer. I stood up with Celt, stretching out my cramped joints.

The dull ache in my knees, elbows, and shoulders was yet another reminder of my ever-increasing age. Maybe I wouldn't have been as creaky at forty-four if I hadn't spent the greater part of those years fighting...but before I could get too in-depth with that thought, I shook my head and filed it away in the humongous '_What if?_' section of my mind.

After a few minutes, I began to feel Nature's call. "I gotta take a deuce," I told Celt as I hopped off our rock formation, starting to trudge along the lines of trenches towards the slope that ran up to the command bunker. "I'll be back in a few!"

I passed by a foxhole occupied by a young marine and two veterans as I made my way back towards the bunker. "We...we did it?" the younger marine was saying in disbelief to his buddies as I approached. I was keeping an eye out for any of my squadmates along the way, but I couldn't help but overhear the what the kid was saying. "We did it!" he said again, louder this time.

"Did what?" I asked the freckle-faced kid as I passed him by. His two older comrades were thinking pretty much the same thing, based on the glances they were giving the kid.

"We won the first fight; didn't you see the Covies run away?"

The little laugh I gave in response was so laden with cynicism that I was surprised it didn't fall to the ground and make a crater. "You thought that was a fight?" I asked the marine. "The Covies sent in grunts to see what kind of numbers and firepower we have, as well as what condition our defenses are in. They were just probing us. Buck up, kid…that wasn't even Round One."

That kind of killed the young marine's buzz...but hey; I wasn't here to make people feel good. If pulling someone's head out of the clouds would result in their being more likely to get addicted to antidepressants in the near future, well that's just too damn bad.

I came across the Master Sergeant as I kept moving upward. My squad leader was in the middle of a conversation with Lieutenant Chesnick, the CO of the company of marines. Though it was usually Captains who, by default, were company commanders, it wasn't unusual to see a Lieutenant in command of one, these days. There had been a shortage of officers, lately. Hell, I even remember once, back during the Harvest Campaign, I had run across a company that was being commanded by a Staff Sergeant. There had been corporals running platoons, and PFCs running squads...it had been a nightmare. Having an El-Tee in charge of a company was nothing new. Maybe it was even starting to become more common than having Captains in charge...

We had only lost a single man to that onslaught of grunts. I learned that by overhearing what the Master Sergeant was reporting to Chesnick. The grunt that did the deed had apparently whipped out a pair of plasma grenades, activated them, and went suicide on the unlucky marine in its path.

"Scar, what the hell are you doing off the line?" the Master Sergeant asked me as I unsuccessfully tried to pass by unnoticed.

"I need to take a shit, Sarge, and I'd rather not go in the trenches where we're gonna be standing until we get killed in a few days."

"Your bowels can wait; get back to your post."

I ended up going in a clump of bushes far away from my original position—I didn't want it anywhere near me. Once I was finished, I quickly returned to my nest atop that rock formation with Celt, though there was no real need to hurry. I had fought in the trenches for a decade against the Covies before joining the Helljumpers; long enough to learn their habits during a standard assault against a fortified position—we still had a good amount of time before trouble would start coming our way.

"Welcome back," Celt murmured drearily from where he lay, yawning as my arrival roused him from the state of almost-sleep that he had been in. "Treeline's still quiet."

"How would you know; you've been sleeping this whole time."

"I ain't been sleepin', no," the Irishman shook his head. "I been _tryin'_ ta sleep...with limited success, as you can see."

I joined my squadmate in trying to sleep, but not quite getting there. Even so...it was almost as good. I fell into a sort of half-sleep where I was somewhat conscious of my surroundings, but I still wasn't exactly awake. Maybe it was a very light form of sleep…oh, never mind; it doesn't really matter. All that matters is that, after what felt like one or two minutes, I was dragged back into reality.

I knew right away that it had been longer than one or two minutes…one or two hours, more like. The early morning light was suddenly a lot brighter, the sun a lot higher in the sky than before. I checked my mission clock and confirmed this. Marines up and down the line were sounding the alarm, jerking anyone who had been sleeping back into the real world.

Celt had already taken out his spotting scope and was scanning the slopes below. The expression on his face didn't change, except for the small smile that started tugging at the corners of his mouth. He then polarized his visor, turning the faceplate into an opaque silver mirror.

"The fuck are you smiling at?" I grunted as I rested my sniper rifle in its place, peering into the scope.

"Look at their welcoming committee."

I focused my scope so that I could see the Covenant force advancing up the mountainside from below the treeline. Gradually, a similar smile crept across my face as well. It wasn't a smile of joy or happiness—the emotions smiles were usually associated with. There was no warmth behind it…it was the dazed reaction of a man looking Death square in the eye.

The smile widened a little bit as I saw the line of wraiths punch through the last of the trees, their plasma mortars warming up. Brute choppers accompanied them, as well as a few of the larger prowler vehicles. Scores of grunts and jackal infantry marched in between the vehicles, spurred on from behind by what looked like an entire pack of the hulking, ape-like Brutes.

"You think they're giving us a little too much credit?" I asked Celt as I flicked the safety off of my weapon. "I mean, I'm flattered that they think they need to send a force like that just to crush little old us…but isn't that just overdoing it a tad bit?"

Celt gave a dark chuckle at that. "The more fucked we are, the funnier you get, Scar. You ever notice that?"


	56. IV Chapter 56: Anger Management

Chapter Fifty-Six: Anger Management

**August 19, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

"Alright, Celt, give me a target," I exhaled, taking in another deep breath as I scanned the oncoming wave of Covenant armor. I could have opened fire and taken out anything I wanted, at this point, but I was waiting for Celt to give me higher-priority targets before going to town on the rest of the attacking force.

"Eh...give me a sec..._gotcha,_" the Irishman proclaimed triumphantly. "There be a chieftain out in the open...spotted him a minute ago, then I lost him...and here he is again."

Celt gave me the direction and range, and I adjusted my aim accordingly, focusing in on the gap between a pair of wraiths. A group of Brute Captains was advancing with the armor and the rest of the infantry. In their midst was an even larger specimen—a hulking, black-haired monster clad in elaborate armor that was colored different shades of yellow and gold. The most striking feature was the large, ornate, Y-shaped headpiece that the creature was wearing. I could only imagine how it could keep its head up under such a bulky helm.

"Well, I'll be damned..." I murmured. "That ain't a regular chieftain; he's a full-blown _war_ chieftain...we're looking at a fucking _clan_ of apes down there, not just a pack..."

As I spoke, I gently nudged my crosshairs onto the head of that Brute chieftain. Once I had the shot lined up, I squeezed the trigger. The vapor trail of the round hung in the air, visible even before the _**crack**_ of the shot rang through the air.

The round struck the Brute chieftain right in the forehead. Its shields flared as they deflected the shot—I hadn't even made a dent. I quickly set myself back up for a second shot and fired, striking the chieftain in the exact same spot. Once again, its shields deflected the round.

By the time I had lined up for a third shot, the chieftain had taken cover. Instead, I took out one of the captains protecting it. I spent the last round on another one of the captains, striking it in its chest and taking down its energy shields.

I swore as the Brute chieftain slipped out of my field of view. I searched for him for a few seconds, but it was of no use—he was gone. No matter…it would have been nice to have gotten the chance to kill that chieftain, but there would be plenty of other Brutes to go around.

The rocket jockeys began sending their payloads into the oncoming Covie armor. There weren't very many marines with rocket launchers—probably one or two per platoon. But, despite the small amount of them, they had been chosen well. None of the rockets missed their intended targets. With Pyro among their numbers, they would be able to kick up a fair amount of chaos, no problem.

"Hey, Virgin, you readin' me?" Celt spoke over the SQUADCOM, trying to contact our technical specialist, who was back on top of the command bunker, manning the missile pod that was its main defense against Covie airborne assaults. "Ya got phantoms headin' your way!"

"_Acknowledged,_" Virgin's reply was.

Sure enough, a pair of the purple Covie dropships hovered overhead, their cannons raining plasma down on our trenches as they approached went. They passed over us, headed towards the command bunker at the top of the mountain. I wasn't able to see Virgin shoot them down, but I heard the explosions of the missiles making contact and the wreckage of the dropships falling to the ground—that would have to be enough.

Despite the damage we were doling out to them, the Covies continued to advance.

Elites and Brutes both had their strengths and weaknesses. While I personally considered Elites to be superior fighters, the Brutes were by no means a meager substitute—the only thing that really made the Elites better was their use of tactics and their speed, whereas Brutes generally favored a more direct, brutal approach when it came to winning battles.

The Brutes employed this 'tactic' on us now; rallying every scrap of manpower they had, and then throwing everything into a frontal assault on our lines. While the Brutes themselves—being the extremely resilient monsters that they are—were faring pretty well. They started returning fire once they got within range, sending hails of white-hot spiker rounds and fiery, propelled grenades searing through the air.

Unfortunately—or _fortunately,_ depending on your perspective—the other Covies weren't faring so well. Grunts and jackals were felled like wheat during the harvest as they struggled to keep up with the Brutes and the Covie armor, but they simply didn't have the resilience of their larger, stronger, faster brethren. The marines were more than happy to send them all to early graves.

I worked methodically, moving from Brute to Brute, going for clean headshots. I didn't get headshots every time, though—sometimes I would strike my target in the torso, or I would miss altogether. This was to be expected, though—and I really didn't have much to complain about, because my main targets were Brutes, and they were much easier to hit than Elites. Sniping split-chins can be incredibly difficult in the chaos of a battle, when you consider how fast they can just flit from place to place with the speed of hummingbirds.

On the proverbial top of the totem pole were jackal snipers—they ranked number one in my book because they were the greatest threat to _me_. Brutes were priority because every one of them I picked off would save many of our marines' lives…but I wouldn't be able to go on doing that if a jackal sniper put a particle beam through my skull. So buzzards beat apes, in this particular scenario.

That being kept in mind, I made it a habit to break off from engaging any of my targets whenever I saw the flash of a particle beam, or whenever Celt alerted me to one. It was relieving to finally have Celt as my spotter during battle, once more…one more set of eyes scanning for danger.

I leveled my crosshairs and took out another Brute minor—the lowest-ranking individuals of the clan attacking us.

The Brutes had a more or less similar ranking system to the Elites, though theirs was based more on some odd form of pack mentality, rather than military discipline. Like the Elites, they had minors, majors, and ultras; though the distinction between these ranks was a lot more blurred than it was with the Elites.

Then there were Brute captains, who commanded larger detachments of Brutes and lesser species…and they were subordinate to their pack chieftains. But we were dealing with a _clan_ of Brutes, here…basically several packs of Brutes combined into a larger force—all commanded by the war chieftain…the Brute I had nearly crowned fifteen minutes ago. The war chieftain was pretty much the Brute equivalent of an Elite zealot, or one of our generals.

Unlike our generals, though, Covie commanders seemed to favor a more…hands-on approach to battle. They charged into the fight alongside their troops, giving orders as they went. I suppose there was something admirable in that…but they were Covies. If they wanted to play brave and charge into the thick of things, I'd be more than happy to give them the honorable death in battle they seemed to crave so dearly.

Or maybe not so honorable…I couldn't really see the honor in dying at the hands of a man several hundred yards away. Good thing I really didn't give a rat's ass about honor. Ignoring honor was something humans were pretty good at.

Someone must have called in some sort of air support, because after another fiew minutes a pair of falcon gunships descended from the sky, their door cannons ablaze. Those falcons didn't have fifties mounted on its flanks, though; instead, it had some sort of light ordinance launcher…and they sure packed a punch. Those falcons were able to neutralize several of the wraiths before being driven off by banshees.

"Scar! Chieftain at one o'clock!" Celt alerted me as I engaged another jackal sniper. Once I wasted the buzzard, Celt gave me more specific bearings. I followed the Irishman's direction and, sure enough, caught sight of a Brute chieftain directing a group of lesser Covies. It was a bulky, muscular specimen, clad in black and red armor that wasn't quite as decked out as the higher-ranking war chieftain's, but it came pretty close.

"Target sighted," I murmured, centering the crosshairs onto the chieftain's stomach, purposely lining up for a low shot. Once I was ready, I opened fire. The first shot struck the chieftain in the stomach, causing its shields to shimmer and falter. My second shot hit it square in the forehead, the recoil of the first shot already lining me up for the second one.

That second shot was more than enough to knock out the chieftain's shields. The energy shields may have held if I'd hit it anywhere else, but that second shot was a headshot, so it knocked out the shields a lot easier. Because the shields had already been weakened by my first shot, the Brute chieftain was left dazed by my follow-up shot. It didn't leap to the side or duck for cover; it must have felt like getting slammed with a crowbar—though it didn't kill it, it sure as hell hurt.

Though the momentary daze the chieftain fell into was only, well, _momentary,_ it proved to be fatal. I had just enough time to line up for a third shot and open fire before the chieftain recovered. My round drilled right through the middle of the large Brute leader's face, knocking its helmet clean off in a spray of blood and gore.

I hooted with satisfaction as I watched the Brute chieftain fall. "_That's for Harvest, motherfuckers!_"

Though I hated all Covies in general, I reserved my deepest hatred for the Brutes. It had been Brutes who had sparked the war at Harvest, Brutes who had killed so many of my people there, _Brutes_ who had burned my home. Though Elites had played a significant role in the subsequent Harvest Campaign, most of us blamed the destruction of the colony on the Brutes. Not many people knew that it had actually been a _grunt_ to fire the first shot during that ill-fated meeting between Governor Thune and that Brute chieftain...but that had faded with history.

Every time I saw a Brute, though, I kept on recalling that fateful night...

_The Harvest Botanical Gardens_..._Governor Thune, Attorney General Pederson, Captain Ponder, Lieutenant Commander al-Cygni, and the three Brutes all standing at the entrance to the greenhouse_...

_Wearing my olive-drab Harvest Militia uniform, standing at attention in the dark, pre-dawn mist with Dempsey, Carrol, Billings, Omar, Lowell, Ricketts, and all the others_...

_A sudden burst of distant gunfire_...

_The flash of the Brutes' weapons as they fired into our ranks, men falling_...

"_Pepper the bastards!_" Carrol had shouted. And we did...returning fire and hitting those Brutes...and thus, the first shots of the whole war were exchanged.

It had happened twenty-eight years ago, but the memory was still as fresh as my memories from yesterday. Every time I saw a Brute's ugly, grinning face, memories from that night kept flashing through my mind. Then I would raise my weapon, open fire, and the spell was broken. I suppose this was the type of thing that psycho counselors would be all over...but I would focus on trying to heal my mind _after_ the war was over...

And if I died before that happened, or if it never happened at all—which would result in the same outcome—I wouldn't have to worry about losing my sanity at all. Kind of a win-win, in a twisted, horrible way.

The bodyguards who had been fighting alongside the chieftain I killed all howled and roared their fury to the heavens. Somehow, they had spotted where I had fired from; the vapor trails from those shots must have pretty much given away my position.

"Oh, boy," Celt muttered. "They're proper pissed, now."

The half-dozen or so Brute bodyguards went berserk—several of them cast away their weapons and simply started charging the lines, while the others retained their weapons and charged the line anyway, firing as they went.

The constant explosions of the brute shots' projectiles hitting our lines started to drown out even the plasma mortar shots from the surviving wraiths. Several more Brutes saw the charging bodyguards and joined in, their bloodlust evident in their furious howls.

This was one thing you would never see Elites do. Sometimes an Elite would charge you with an energy sword if he got angry enough, but never would you see an entire force of split-chins lose their cool like this. And though most Brutes didn't seem to be as fast or as smart as the Elites, a group of berserking Brutes was a terrifying sight to behold.

I didn't pay them any heed, at first, deciding to concentrate my fire on another cluster of Brutes laying down a withering hail of spikes onto one of our entrenchments. When Celt alerted me to the berserking Brute bodyguards and their followers, they were smashing through our lines.

A heavy fifty-cal machinegun opened up on the charging monsters and managed to take two of them out before they reached the line, but the rest of the Brutes slammed into the defenses before the machinegun had a chance to kill any more of them. The marine manning the heavy fifty was impaled through the throat by one of those crescent-shaped bayonets mounted under the leading Brute's spiker rifle.

That Brute went on to kill the machinegun's loader with a quick burst from its rifle before I could take out its shields with a shot to its chest. The third marine in the foxhole was able to put a shell through the leading Brute's stomach with his shotgun before getting the hell out of dodge. No sooner had the first Brute fallen when two of the Brutes' sparking orange spike grenades sailed into the foxhole, obliterating the dormant heavy fifty and clearing the way for the remaining bodyguards.

Those Brutes really could have done a lot of damage to the rest of our lines if they had attacked the marines on either side of them...but that wasn't their objective. Their only objective was to avenge their chieftain. As the three remaining bodyguards, with the help of four Brute minors, smashed through the second line of defenses—losing three of the minors and one of the bodyguards in the process—and continued rampaging up the hill, it suddenly hit me that they were going after _me_.

I hadn't even considered what the reaction of that dead chieftain's followers would have been after I killed it... I mean, I _knew_ it would piss the shit out of a lot of Brutes, but I never imagined that those same Brutes would...you know...make it all the way to the rear of our lines.

"Sarge!" I screamed into the SQUADCOM. "Celt and I are about to be up to our necks in ape; we need backup!"

"_How the hell did Covies get to your position?_" the Master Sergeant's response was.

"I killed their chieftain and they're fucking pissed off at me, and—you know what, it really doesn't matter why! Just send us some help!"

"_Standby_..."

I swore, ripping one of my stun grenades off my belt, priming it, and lobbing it down over the edge of my rock formation into the Brutes' midst. The flashbang detonated, but the two bodyguards kept right on going, unfazed by their sudden loss of hearing and vision. The Brute minor, however, staggered to a halt, covering its eyes with its hands. It was quickly taken out by a nearby marine with a BR55.

The two bodyguards leaped onto the rock face of the formation which Celt and I were perched on, scaling the rock like a pair of monkeys climbing through a jungle.

"Oh, no ye don't!" Celt growled, dropping his spotting scope and pulling his M90 off his back. "I'll be dyin' at me home in Belfast when I'm old and fat; _not_ in this feckin' wasteland!"

The Irishman planted a boot onto the shoulder of the first bodyguard and jammed his shotgun into the bodyguard's helmet, opening fire and sending an eight-gauge shell into the Brute's skull.

The back of the Brute's head was blown away, along with everything that had been contained within it. The Brute's body sagged backwards and plummeted back down to the ground below.

The other bodyguard leaped up onto the top of our rock formation and charged us. Celt and I dove out of the way, and the Brute overshot us.

The Brute bodyguard spun on its heel and came back at us, howling for our blood. I rolled back up onto my knees and leveled my sniper rifle, firing a round right into the Brute's chest. I rarely ever fired my sniper rifle at waist-level like that; the recoil almost knocked me flat on my back.

The round was enough to take down the Brute's energy shields, but it didn't penetrate its armor. The Brute faltered a tad bit at the impact, but it kept right on coming. I knew that if I tried to flee, it would run me down and pulp me. I didn't have time to take another shot, either, so I did one of the stupidest things I've ever done in my long military career: I charged him right back.

I ran low to the ground, gaining as much momentum as I could in the pitifully small distance between that Brute and myself. The Brute hadn't been expecting me to charge it, either, so it wasn't too hard for me to duck under its arms and plow right into its waist…and bounce right back off.

The result was actually pretty anticlimactic, if you ask me. The Brute simply had more body mass and momentum than me—it was like a nine-year-old trying to tackle a professional football player. Had it been Pyro, or maybe even Cajun charging the Brute, they probably could have knocked it down…but it was _me_ charging the monster, _not_ Pyro or Cajun. I was at the shallow end of the gene pool when it came to physical stature. I'm a strong guy, don't get me wrong, but I'm not exactly heavily built.

Even so, it had made the Brute stop charging. It now walked towards me, curling its hands into giant fists. I looked right at those fists as they came crushing down, bracing myself for the pain and cracked ribs and internal bleeding that was sure to follow…but it never came.

With a raw-throated yell, Celt leaped onto the Brute's back and plunged his combat knife into the back of its neck, burying it up to the hilt. The Brute gave a warbling grunt of surprise, coming to a dead halt as it felt around the back of its neck, trying to figure out where the pain was coming from.

Celt yanked his knife free and, in one fluid motion, inverted the blade, grabbed the Brute's neck, and drew it in a sharp line across its throat.

Dark, purple-red blood flowing freely from its slit throat and the stab wound in the back of its neck, the Brute let its arms fall and it wandered off, taking several dazed steps away from where I was lying.

Celt jumped off the Brute bodyguard, wiping the bloody blade off on his armor. As the Brute staggered another step forward and collapsed to its knees, breathing one of its final breaths, Celt planted a boot in its back and kicked it off our rock formation. It went limp as it pitched forward, landing with a sickening _crunch_.

I peered over the edge of the rock face and looked down at the body—the Brute seemed to have fallen right on its head and snapped its neck. It was probably dead even before it hit the ground, anyway.

I looked at Celt with a newfound respect as I straightened back up and grabbed my sniper rifle. "Who unlocked _your_ inner badass?" I quipped.

"Hey, if the good Lord hadn't invented whiskey, the Irish would've conquered the world," Celt retorted. "Everyone knows that saying, so don't be getting' into a fight with me."

With that done, Celt and I got back in contact with the Master Sergeant and informed him of what had transpired. As we left our rock formation, a reserve unit of marines was taking up positions in the trenches and foxholes that the Brute entourage had smashed through, refusing the lines.

Celt and I relocated, finding another rock formation to climb up on and return to sniping. I never found that war chieftain again, sadly. Though, I wondered if we'd have had another army of raging berserker Brutes to deal with if I had been able to kill their commander.

I took out a few more higher-ranking Brutes under Celt's direction before starting to pick off Covies at will. Time turned fluid; seconds and minutes blending together. There was no time; there was only the next kill. Eventually, the only thing that occupied my conscious self was the routine of firing and reloading my sniper rifle. _Bang_. _Bang_._ Bang_._ Bang_. Eject empty clip. Slot new clip in place. Pull the priming lever back, and repeat the cycle. I lost count of how many times I performed this routine, but I performed it with the calm, detached efficiency of a fourteen-year sniper veteran.

I checked the mission clock after the last of the Covies vanished back into the treeline, having been unable to breach our line in any other places. We had been going at it nonstop for six hours—the sun was already starting to set in the west.

"_Shite_…" Celt moaned, staggering to his feet and stretching his aching, cramped limbs. "Before I went an' joined the Helljumpers, I used to do this on a daily basis…and for the life o' me, I can't remember _how_."

Similar thoughts were running through my mind. I had fought in the trenches with the 9th Force Recon for an entire decade before being allowed to join the ODSTs…and now, after fighting in the trenches once more, I had no idea how I had endured all those years.

_You were younger, then, Alley_.

A watch was posted on the lines, and a portion of the company of marines was allowed to retire for the night into the command bunker at the top of the mountain. My squad was amongst them.

"We're still counting the casualties," the Master Sergeant sighed as he plopped down into one of the chairs around the table. "Lieutenant Chesnick swallowed a brute shot towards the end…that leaves the entire company in the hands of Gunny Huxley. As for the rest-"

"No disrespect intended, sir, but I don't want to hear it," Virgin grumbled, leaning forward over the table and resting his head on the surface. "Whatever the KIA count is, it's only gonna get higher…"

We settled in and grabbed some sleep. After several hours passed, it was around 0500 hours, so I got up and went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face afterwards. I returned to the main living space to find several of my squadmates awake and playing a game of poker with a couple of the marines.

Just as I started to notice the déjà-vu, the perimeter alarm went off again, and Gunnery Sergeant Huxley tramped into the bunker, bawling "_Up and at 'em! Let's go, let's go, let's go!_ _The Covies are about to hit us again!_"

I made no sound as I pulled on my helmet and picked up my sniper rifle, accompanying Celt outside the bunker as we jogged towards our sniping nest. The more things change, the more they seem to stay the same…


	57. IV Chapter 57: A Brush with Death

Chapter Fifty-Seven: A Brush with Death

**August 21, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

I think the Covies in this area must have committed the majority of their ground forces to that huge assault earlier in the week. When we drove back that clan of Brutes, I don't think we broke the back of the Covie forces in the area, but we definitely whipped them raw.

The Brutes tried breaking our lines three more times in the past two days, but those subsequent attacks weren't as powerful as that first one. If anything, it had been the Brutes that had saved the battle for us that day; a group of them managed to break through our lines in an attempt to exact vengeance on me for killing their chieftain.

They got through our defenses, and they could have effectively destroyed all resistance in this entire section of the line…but they didn't. They didn't care about winning the battle; they only cared about killing me, so when they got through our defenses, they just kept on going straight for me, allowing the marines to swiftly close the breach.

Other than that particular instance, and maybe a couple more incidents involving wraiths and suicide grunts, the line was kept pretty stable. Our body count had been stacking up, though; we would have fallen yesterday had it not been for the reinforcements Commander Angiers had promised us from Quezon.

It was only a platoon of marines that came to assist us, but still…thirty extra guns were thirty extra guns. We'd need every one of them.

I was currently trying and failing to get some sleep. There had been no assault on our lines the day before…we had been manning the lines all day long, but nothing had happened. Now, I was huddled up in one of the foxholes with Celt, Cajun, and a cigarette, waiting either to fall asleep, or for morning to arrive.

"Ya hear them rumors?" Cajun asked us as he shifted into a more comfortable position.

"What rumors?" I asked, exhaling a puff of smoke.

"The _Stalwart Dawn_ arrived at New Alexandria yesterday," Cajun told us. "Or so I heard…"

Celt arched an eyebrow at that. "If the frigate is here, then why are we still stuck on this bloody mountain?"

"The civilian populace is still being evacuated," I reminded the Irishman. "If we go down, the corvettes will have a straight path right into the city. The civilian transports wouldn't be able to even get off the ground."

"Yeah, well how long that evac s'posed ta take, eh?" Cajun grunted. "If we don' get extraction, and _soon_… Well, I don' really have ta finish that thought, do I?"

I took another puff of the cigarette and moved to the very back of the foxhole, sitting up against the wall of earth. I couldn't sleep, and I didn't feel like lying down on the cold ground any longer. "This planet feels like a grave."

"It _is_ a grave," Celt pointed out.

"It feels like _our_ grave."

"You stop taking antidepressants, Scar?" Cajun chuckled.

"If by antidepressants you mean scotch and whiskey, no," I answered. "But I've just been thinking, lately…"

A wry grin crept over Cajun's face, distorting the symmetry of his horseshoe mustache. "A bad habit o' yers."

"Shut up. I've just been noticing how…I don't know…_different_ all of this is. We're not dropping in, completing our objective, and getting the hell out. Not anymore. This time, we're in it 'till the end…we haven't done this, before."

"Eh…I guess ya gotta point, there…" Cajun shrugged.

"Just think about it…" I continued. "Even if we get extracted from here to the _Stalwart Dawn,_ what then? Where do we get deployed next? Aszod? Some other place that we have to defend to the last? It's simple probability; the odds of us getting off Reach alive are pretty damn low…"

"The odds of surviving the war for as long as we have were pretty damn low," Cajun argued. "But here we are. Probability ain't worth shit next to luck."

"And luck isn't worth shit next to Reach getting fried with us _on_ it…" I muttered under my breath so the others couldn't hear. I fell silent for a little while afterwards, not wanting to infect Celt or Cajun with my dreary mood.

I was rarely like this, but once every few blue moons when I had time to sit back and actually _think_ about the war we were fighting in…the sheer hopelessness of it all seemed to press in like a smothering blanket—choking out the light.

It hadn't been much of a problem, before; ODSTs were constantly on the move. But now that I found myself sitting in a foxhole, manning a defensive line for an indefinite amount of time…my thoughts were suddenly much more pronounced than before.

"I'm sorry, guys," I apologized after the few minutes of silence. "I just need a stiff drink…and you certainly don't need to hear my bitching."

"Don't worry about it," Celt clapped me on the shoulder. "We all need to vent our inner Apocalypse Asshole, sometimes."

I exhaled again, sending the smoke from my cigarette up into the air, where it gradually dispersed. "I wonder what the Covies are up to?" I murmured after another long stretch of silence.

"Don' care, so long as they ain't attackin'," Cajun grunted from under his helmet, which he had rested over his face as he tried to get some sleep—though he was having about as much success as me.

Then again…I _was_ beginning to feel a little weary…

"What, you don't think it was strange that they didn't attack us today?"

"Of course I think it's strange," Cajun rolled his eyes. "But I'm not gonna go outta my way to _talk_ about it…that could jinx us."

"Good point."

I wasn't willing to dismiss the uneasiness I was feeling in my gut. The Covies had been hitting us in full force yesterday and the day before…but today, there hadn't been so much as a peep on the lines. No movement in the treeline at all.

The Covenant were still capable of being wily foes…they always had a plan—be it charging into battle headfirst, or striking at an opponent's weak places. Nothing would ever make me forget defending that school on Verus III, where my company had been successfully holding the Covies back at one of the parking lots. Unable to break our lines, the Covies secretly tunneled under our position, planted explosives, and blew my company's defenses sky-high.

What were they planning now? I refused to believe that they were simply taking the day off; Covies don't rest.

I rested my head back against the earthen wall of the foxhole and closed my eyes, letting out a quiet yawn. Gradually, Cajun's constant, soft snoring and Celt's heavy breathing seemed to pick up some sort of rhythm. This was not true at all, of course—it was simply my fatigued mind drifting off to rest, taking the sounds with it. But at the time, it helped me fall asleep.

My dreams were discombobulated, as usual. Sometimes I would dream I was five years old, watching my father drive away to the business conference that he would never return from—a drunk driver put an end to his trip before he even reached his destination. Sometimes I would dream that I was in the car with my dad. I would try and tell him to stop, to turn around, to take another route…but I would always find myself unwilling or unable to talk.

Other times, I would dream of my time in the 9th Force Recon, only there would always be things that weren't real; things that I wouldn't notice until _after_ I woke up. We would find ourselves fighting in a fiery hellscape, in plains of darkness, in voids of white light…

Tonight, I dreamed of the Elite who spared my life. It had been fourteen years ago, also on Verus III—the night I first met the team of ODSTs who would later become my squadmates. The Covies came after us with a vengeance after I sniped their precious Prophet; I found myself in a close-quarters fight with an Elite Major, distinguishable by its half-missing lower-right mandible.

The Elite drew its energy sword, steadily walking towards me. A wildfire was raging all around us, casting the Elite in a hellish glow and sending burning cinders raining down on our heads.

The red-armored Elite drew its energy sword and charged forward. I tried to dive out of the way, but found that I couldn't move. It wasn't that I was restrained or paralyzed…I simply couldn't make myself move.

The Elite planted a boot in my gut and knocked me down to the ground. I hit the earth hard, getting the wind knocked out of me. I was suddenly able to move, but it was too late; the Elite thrust its plasma blade down and plunged it into my chest, burying it up to the bulge in the twin blades, near the hilt.

White-hot pain lanced right into my brain, and I started to scream. The Brute gave a low, throaty snicker as it…wait…_Brute?_

Everything suddenly changed. The wildfire was gone, replaced by a quiet, star-studded night sky. The white-hot pain was still there and I was still screaming. Instead of the Elite Major, though, there was now a black-armored Brute crouched over me, its active camo fading away with its strike…pulling the twin curved bayonets of its spiker rifle out of my chest. The blades came out of me with a sickening squelch, dripping with blood. _My_ blood.

Now other people near me were screaming, too. I instantly recognized the voices. _Celt_. _Cajun_. I was lying against the back of a foxhole near the AA command bunker designated _C/S Three Actual_…

I was awake.

Interestingly enough, getting stabbed hadn't really hurt all that much. Yeah, there was some pain, obviously…but the _real_ agony started when the blades were yanked back out.

I saw hazy, feverish images of Celt and Cajun proceeding to stab the living shit out of that Brute with their combat knifes—Cajun had a non-regulation hunting knife that he saved for close-quarters instances, and he put it to good use now.

I could faintly hear weaponsfire erupting up and down the line, but it sounded distant…as if I were hearing it underwater, or through a pillow.

I couldn't breathe, either. Those blades must've hit my lungs…every time I took a breath, very little air seemed to actually go into my lungs. Whenever I exhaled, blood dribbled out of my mouth.

My helmet was yanked off and I was pulled into a sitting-up position, probably so my trachea wouldn't be filled with my own blood so quickly. I tried to get up, to move, but something—I'm pretty sure it was Celt—held me down. If that was Celt, then Cajun was the shadowy figure standing at the side of the foxhole, screaming something at the top of his lungs. Probably for a medic? I suppose that was a safe guess.

I felt tired…so tired… A sudden urge to cough came over me, and I obliged. An tangy, iron taste filled my mouth, and something warm and wet spattered my chest and legs, but I barely noticed.

My eyes closed for a few seconds. When I opened them up again, I was surprised to see only a metal ceiling awash in a hellish red glow from the lights. I craned my neck over to the side, trying to take in my surroundings. Even in my partially conscious state, I recognized the interior of a pelican.

There were people clustered around something on the other side of the troop bay…I squinted, trying to focus my blurry vision, and was barely able to make out the shape of a woman lying on the other bench. The three men would press things to her chest and throat, but when they pulled them away, they were dark and dripping.

A half-chuckle bubbled out of my throat. I kept seeing images of spilled ketchup—splattering my chest and stomach, my arms, my legs... I needed some napkins. That woman had gone and gotten ketchup all over herself, too, and the three men were going crazy trying to clean it up. That struck me as hilarious, for some reason…

Then the woman started moving a lot faster—jerking, thrashing…and dark fluid began flying from her mouth as she coughed, splattering the men around her.

My chuckle turned to a giggle, and then into full-blown laughter. I couldn't even remember what was so funny, why I was laughing…I just kept on going, until dark fluid began flying from _my_ mouth, too!

Someone put a hand on my forehead and I felt a sharp pricking sensation in my arm. The splashes of light and shadow bled into each other and dissolved into black.

There were no dreams this time…no fire, no Elites or Brutes, no swords or bayonets…just darkness. Like before, my eyes closed for a few seconds before opening to reveal a completely different place.

I was lying on a bed of some sort…but the ceiling was still moving. Curious…

It was a hallway, I realized, and I was being pushed down it. The lights up above were flickering, and every few seconds there would be a deep, booming explosion. The lights would wink out momentarily before flickering back on, and a cloud of dust would begin to settle onto the floor.

I could feel the stiff, warm feeling of a bandage compressed around the middle of my torso.

My head was a little bit clearer this time around, so I knew that I was in a hospital gurney being pushed into one of the facility's elevators, and that the ones pushing me were doctors. The explosions were becoming more and more frequent…I quickly realized that the hospital was collapsing around us. I tried to sit up, but an intense wave of nausea rose in my stomach, and I blacked out again.

The next time I came to, I was myself again. It was like waking up after sleeping for over twelve hours…though you had gotten plenty of rest, you still felt groggy and slow.

I was in some sort of underground bunker…there were halogen strip lights providing a meager illumination for the room, which was cluttered with wounded troopers and marines, as well as medics and hospital staff.

I was lying on a makeshift cot—it was actually four supply crates covered with a fire blanket, but it served well as a cot, regardless.

"You gave us a bit of a scare, Mr. Garris," a voice spoke over to my right.

I turned in the direction of the voice, arching an eyebrow at the familiar face I saw. "Lieutenant Colonel Patrikos?"

"It's _Colonel,_ now," Patrikos smiled. "I haven't been a light colonel forever, you know."

I had known Athos Patrikos for a long time—he was the 9th Force Recon's battalion surgeon, responsible for marines who were too badly wounded for a field medic to fix up. He had put me back together multiple times during my service with the 9th. I knew that he would be on Reach with the rest of the 9th, but I never thought I'd see him again like this.

"With you working on me, I guess I was never in any real danger," I returned the smile. As I started to feel the ache in my chest, though, the smile began to disappear. "What happened? Where are we?"

"A fallout shelter under Pavel Kirayenko Memorial Hospital in New Alexandria. You were gutted by a Brute spiker rifle's bayonets, Gunny," Patrikos told me. "Biofoam was able to keep you alive until you made it to me, but only barely…both of your lungs were impaled, and your chest was becoming a blood balloon… I won't bore you with the details; just be happy you managed to wake up…I was afraid you'd be unconscious for a full week."

"A full…a full _week?_ How long have I been out?"

"Four days, I think…" Colonel Patrikos checked his watch, which must have displayed the date, because he gave a little confirming nod. "Yep, today's the 25th. You've been out for four days."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," I swung my legs over the edge of my cot and sat up. I felt a little woozy for a few seconds, but the sensation passed. I was able to move without retching my guts out onto the floor. "My squad…"

"Easy, Garris, _easy,_" Patrikos stopped me from standing up all the way. "I spent a lot of time on you; if you ruin my handiwork, so help me God I'll stitch my name into your face next time you need surgery."

"I need to find my squad…" I murmured, standing up slowly, waving away Patrikos's helping hand. "I need to…need to find…"

"Take a moment, Garris," Patrikos now stopped me again, gripping my shoulder. "Don't lose your head over a few steps…you've had major surgery, and your body still needs some time to reboot."

Patrikos led me around the room so that I could get used to walking again before making me sit back down on my cot and tossing me a ration pouch of orange juice. "Drink that," he ordered. "Let's start pumping some real Vitamin C into you."

Another series of explosions shook the ceiling of the bunker as I downed the OJ. I had heard the explosions before, but only now did I notice that there was a constant rumbling noise amidst the explosions…it was a lower, more omnipresent noise, so it was harder to notice at first.

"What the hell's happening on the surface?" I asked the Colonel, gesturing upward with my head.

"Oh, nothing," Patrikos shrugged. "We're just being glassed; that's all. Would you like another orange juice?"


	58. IV Chapter 58: So it Goes

Chapter Fifty-Eight: So it Goes

**August 26, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

The explosions stopped sometime late last night, not too long ago.

According to Colonel Patrikos, with whom I'd been speaking for the past day, contact had been lost with New Alexandria's outer defenses not long after I was wounded. It had been mayhem out there…apparently, the troops defending the AA emplacements had been forced into a harried and disorganized retreat. It had pretty much been every man for himself…and my squad had been among those defenders. I had no way of knowing what happened to them.

I had been wounded by a Brute Stalker—a warrior specializing in stealth who utilized active camouflage in the field. That had been the Covie attackers' latest ploy to break our lines—sending stalkers into our midst to cause as much mayhem and chaos as they could before slamming us with a night assault. It had just been my bad luck to be in one of the foxholes attacked by the cloaked Brutes.

And now here I was, stuck in a fallout shelter, with no idea where my comrades were…or if they were even _alive_.

Much of the military personnel in New Alexandria had been evacuated onto the _Stalwart Dawn_ three days ago, after a good chunk of the civilian populace was shipped out. The _Stalwart Dawn_ was then forced to leave, stranding anyone unlucky enough to not make it aboard.

The Covies quickly pulled their ground forces out of New Alexandria, giving our remaining boys a respite. However, it was only a brief one… No sooner had their troops pulled out of the city when no less than five Covenant corvettes quit their low orbit over Reach and began to glass the city and all of the surrounding area.

This kind of glassing wasn't the kind utilized by the Covies to destroy entire worlds; this was low-range bombardment, which involved smaller vessels using lower-intensity plasma beams to fry specific areas…such as this city. Because of the lower intensity beams, anyone lucky enough to be far underground—like we were—would have been able to survive.

Anyone else, though…

"Oh my God…" the trooper next to me breathed as we made our way out of the fallout bunker and onto the streets of New Alexandria.

_Oh my God_ was right…the entire city was gone. At least, the surface was…

Even though there were still many fallout bunkers, bomb shelters, and deep basements that had no doubt been spared, New Alexandria—as a tactical holdout, a rally point, and as a city—had ceased to exist.

We were in Hell. Just because I'm an Atheist doesn't mean I don't know Hell when I see it. The sky was red and black. Red was the natural color of the thick, heavy clouds above…but the black was supplied by the colossal mountains of smoke gushing into the sky; the result of a million fires.

Morning, afternoon, evening, night…they all would have looked the same. As such, it was impossible to tell what time of day it was. It was dark, like the middle of the night, but the ambient lighting gave no hints as to what time it really was. I instinctively moved to check my mission clock…only to be again reminded that I was no longer wearing my armor. All I was wearing was a light blue hospital gown and a pair of my old orange, silver, and green boxer shorts.

I didn't like it one bit. I felt naked without my armor…but I would have to deal, for now.

There were no buildings left intact. The skyscrapers were either completely gone, or they had left behind half-melted, twisted piles of semi-molten slag. Many of the structures still glowed bright yellow or a deep red; evidence of the severe plasma bombardment that had taken place.

There were about sixty or so of us…wounded marines and troopers who had escaped from the hospital, as well as a handful of surgeons. The regular hospital staff must have been evacuated with the rest of the civilians, as the surgeons were all military personnel.

I also noticed that there were only a couple other wounded soldiers who had been critically injured like me—everyone else had plasma burns, lacerations, reattached limbs, or other nonlife-threatening wounds. Anyone that had been unable to move fast enough must have been fried in what was left of the hospital…which meant that Colonel Patrikos must have personally made sure I was safely transported underground.

Yes…when I had briefly come to in the hospital corridor as I was getting moved underground, one of the voices had definitely been Patrikos's—even in my barely conscious state, I still remembered his distinct, Greek accent. I owed that man a drink.

We made our way through the ruins of New Alexandria, heading for the nearest plaza, where there would be room to call for extraction. Every few minutes, the ground would rumble as the remains of another tall building collapsed to the ground. The city was dead, but it was still decomposing.

We weren't exactly walking down a road, either…we were walking down a path through the nightmare of the ruins. Debris and pieces of buildings had blocked up many of the roads before being melted into each other and into the streets by the intense heat of the plasma. All of the buildings had been melted into each other, as well; most of the streets were all gone.

We had to make our way over two or three-story-high obstacles on several occasions; climbing up on mounds of debris, avoiding razor-sharp or red-hot edges, winding our way through the ruins of what had once been the crown jewel of Reach.

It was a hellscape, a wilderness that we were hiking through; it looked like something straight out of an absurdist universe. No geometric shapes, no straight lines or edges—everything simply melted and fused into a single, sanity-trying hellscape. We might as well have been on one of Reach's moons, rather than Reach itself.

"Hard to believe this used to be a city…" the trooper ahead of me muttered as he pulled himself over what had once been a windowsill before turning to give me a hand.

Our little force of wounded soldiers and surgeons moved through the blasted-out remains of an apartment complex. All that was left was the ground floor and some of the walls—the ceiling and all of the upper levels were gone. We had to go through the gutted insides of the apartments because the surrounding streets were blocked off by molten steel. Inside the apartments were sad reminders of the lives of the people who had once lived here…overturned, blackened furniture, unfinished meals, stuffed animals…

"You ever read _3000 Celsius?_" the marine behind me asked as he climbed into the apartment as well, close behind me.

"Nope," the trooper shook his head.

"What's it about?" I asked.

"You guys've seriously never heard of _3000 Celsius?_" the marine sounded surprised. "Am I the only one whose high school English teachers pretty much jerked off to that book?"

"I skipped all my English classes," the trooper shrugged.

"And I skipped High School," I added.

"It was written by Anthony Radcliffe, a UN Army veteran of the Interplanetary War," the marine explained. "It's pretty much an account of how he was captured by Koslovic communist forces during the Amazon Offensive and survived the firebombing of Buenos Aires."

"Sounds interesting," I conceded.

"What the hell was he doing in Aires in the first place?" the trooper asked. "That was one of the Koslovics' strongholds, wasn't it?"

"The communists took him prisoner and sent him to work in a munitions factory in the middle of the city," the marine continued. He paused as he took a moment to step over the carbonized skeleton of one of the apartment inhabitants before going on. "He survived in that shithole for a month, but it was being kept imprisoned in that factory—which was located underground so that UN forces couldn't hit it from the air—that saved him and his fellow POWs when the UN Air Force pounded Buenos Aires into the next century with thermobaric incendiaries."

"Lucky bastard," the trooper remarked.

We stepped over the melted lumps that had once been a separating wall between two apartments, entering the living space adjacent to the one we had entered the complex through. The other side of the complex wouldn't be too far away, now.

"So anyway, after Buenos Aires gets fried, the POW workers and the surviving Koslovic guards make their way to the surface and emerge to find the city completely destroyed…and when I say destroyed, I mean _destroyed_. Melted, burned, warped…gone," the marine gestured to the ruins all around us. "In his account, Radcliffe describes making his way through the ruins of the city as moving through an alien wilderness, saying how he might as well have been on the moon. That's what this reminds me of."

I gave an agreeing grunt. "I guess it's safe to say that we know what Mr. Radcliffe went through…though I think plasma beats thermobarics."

"A destroyed city's a destroyed city," the marine shrugged nonchalantly. "Does it really matter what was used to make it so?"

We made our way through the rest of the apartment complex and filed back out onto the streets—what was left of them, at least. After about another half an hour of navigating the labyrinthine paths through the destruction, our motley group of wounded soldiers and surgeons stumbled into Anesti Plaza—a large, open square situated in the south of New Alexandria where street vendors and entertainers had flourished, along with restaurants, parlors, and all sorts of small businesses.

No longer. None of the plaza was recognizable—the only reason we knew it was the plaza was because there were no buildings in it to make any wreckage, resulting in a wide swathe of completely barren ground in the middle of a sea of destruction.

"_Look!_" another wounded man was pointing up to the sky. "There's aircraft here!"

Sure enough, two or three pelicans were faintly visible in the smoky sky. Someone must be sending dropships back into our airspace to search for survivors…this struck me as somewhat unusual, but I definitely wasn't complaining.

Colonel Patrikos reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a small cylinder. He pressed something on the cylinder, and there was a loud _POP,_ followed by a thick cloud of bright green smoke that began to spout from one end.

The green smoke gradually dispersed into the air, but the signal flare continued to brightly illuminate the smoke still emerging from the cylinder. In the darkness that covered the ruins of New Alexandria, it would be hard to miss from the air, anyway. Patrikos waved it in the air until he got the attention of one of the pelican dropships up above, at which point he dropped it onto the ground.

After about a minute, the pelican reached the plaza and came in for a landing. Once the dropship was squared away, the rear hatch hissed open and two men—the pilot and copilot—hopped out.

"Lieutenant François Rousseau, 23rd Naval Air Squadron," the pilot introduced himself, trading salutes with Patrikos. "Good to see you boys alive and in one piece."

"You're a godsend, Lieutenant," Patrikos dropped his salute and stepped up into the troop bay. "These men need evacuation. There are sixty-three of us."

"I won't be able to take everyone," the Lieutenant said to Colonel Patrikos. "But I've called in two more birds to take everyone else. They'll have to sit tight until my colleagues arrive."

"You heard the Lieutenant!" Patrikos raised his voice so that everyone could hear. "Divide yourselves into three groups of twenty!"

It took another minute or so of disorganized shuffling, but we quickly followed our order, splitting into three distinct groups. Patrikos pointed to my group and designated us as Group One. The others were designated Two and Three, respectively.

We waited five more minutes for Rousseau's promised support to arrive. Two more pelicans swooped down from above, landing behind Rousseau's ship. Once they were on the ground, Patrikos ordered us into the pelicans. He had my group load up into Rousseau's pelican and directed the other two groups into the other dropships.

Once we were all squared away, Rousseau and Warrant Officer Davis—his copilot—assumed their stations and fired up the pelican's engines. I held onto a ceiling handle as we soared up into the sky. The nightmare that was the ruins of New Alexandria dropped down below, rolled out in front of us like a grand carpet. A grand carpet that had been tossed into a furnace, crumpled, and then badly flattened.

Though it was pitch dark in all the surrounding areas, New Alexandria was a beacon of light. As we got higher into the sky, it became easier to see the millions of bright orange and yellow dots scattered throughout the hellscape…the millions of fires that were still burning…that would _keep_ burning…

Then we ascended past the veil of cloud and smoke, and the burnt ruin was obscured from my view.

Now, we were in a world of darkness. It was still in the middle of the night, as the sky was black and the stars were out. The moon was also out in its full glory…but the thick veil of clouds, smoke, smog, and ash pretty much absorbed its light.

"Colonel Patrikos, sir," I made my way over to the battalion surgeon, who was sitting on the floor, resting back against the bulkhead separating the troop bay from the cockpit.

"Yeah, Garris, what is it?" the Colonel lifted his head at the sound of my voice, opening his eyes.

"Where exactly are we going?"

"Aszod," the Colonel replied. "That's one of the last holdouts on the entire Eposz landmass. I'll be rejoining my unit, there."

I nodded silently to myself; that was the answer I had been expecting. "I've lost my squad," I told the Colonel as I settled down next to him. "They were defending one of the AA hubs outside the city, and their position was obviously overrun…maybe they got out. Maybe they were separated from each other. Maybe they all died on that mountain…I just don't know."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Patrikos said, but he could tell that I was going somewhere with this.

I paused for a moment, yawning and clearing my throat, before going on. "I'm not going to pretend that I'm just going to lie around in a hospital until I get either fried or evacuated; I'll keep on fighting…but I'm also a soldier without a unit. If you're going back to the 9th Force Recon, I would like to accompany you."

Patrikos gave a thin smile at that and rested his head back on the bulkhead. "Whether or not you can temporarily rejoin them is not up to me…but I don't see any reason why that couldn't be arranged."


	59. IV Chapter 59: Return to Normalcy

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Return to Normalcy

**August 27, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

I was both surprised and disappointed to walk into the battalion CP and come face to face with an unfamiliar man—a Captain, judging from the double bars on his shoulder straps; not Colonel Ndebele. I quickly stifled those feelings and snapped my hand to my forehead in a salute. "Gunnery Sergeant Garris, Albert T, reporting for duty."

The Captain looked up from the holo-table, giving me a quick once-over. "Captain James Litovski," he introduced himself, returning the salute. "Acting CO of the 9th Force Recon battalion. Doc Patrikos told me you wanted to be attached to Alpha Company until you find your old unit...this is correct?"

"It is," I nodded.

"This is highly irregular," the Captain pointed out. "I'm not technically allowed to do this without approval from PERSCOM."

"Well, sir, I think the higher-ups have more important things to care about than little old me," I argued. "Reach getting fried, for example."

"I think I'll end up wasting too much energy arguing with you," the Captain muttered, before relenting and giving a single nod. "I'll attach you to Alpha Company—they're being commanded by Lieutenant Mulligan. Between you and me, I think they could use the extra hand. Once we get off this shithole, though, I'm going to have you returned to your outfit."

"You won't need to, sir," I assured the Captain. "I'll already be gone."

"I'll send word ahead to Lieutenant Mulligan," Captain Litovski said as he returned his attention to the holo-table. "Now, get."

"Sir," I saluted the officer once more, turned on my heel, and marched out of the command post.

Aszod had a warm climate, so I couldn't complain about the weather. Sure, it was prone to rain, but I could survive that. It wasn't as bad as snow or hail. I suppose the other good part about Aszod was the fact that it was the only remaining extraction point left in the entire Eposz landmass, which pretty much meant the entire planet.

Not long ago, we had lost all contact with Quezon, Manassas, and all of the major cities and holdouts…which, in military terms, meant that they were now nothing more than molten craters. Reports were coming in that the Covies were starting to glass the planet properly—not the low-yield scorching that took place in New Alexandria; I mean the full, orbital plasma bombardment…the kind that destroys planets. When I had requested for Patrikos to take me to the 9th Force Recon, I didn't realize that I was asking to be put into one of the last remaining intact units left on Reach. That really went to show how badly the fight had been going while I was unconscious.

The actual extraction point was the Aszod ship-breaking yards, owned by Sinoviet Heavy Machinery, where old, decommissioned UNSC starships were sent to be stripped down and gutted for spare parts. The yards were over seventy kilometers away, situated in the tail-end of the Highland Mountains. With the Covies hitting the roads at regular intervals, getting there would take some time.

I made my way across the stream next to the battalion HQ and strode into the large field beyond, where there was a sea of cubicles—the collapsible, easily portable one-man tents used by military personnel when we're out manning forward bases where there aren't any permanent structures, or when we're out manning the lines in the wilderness.

I felt funny as I walked—like I was taking larger, faster strides than intended to. I knew that it was because of the standard marine battle armor that I was wearing. I have no idea what happened to my ODST armor, but it had been removed when I woke up in New Alexandria. I was issued a spare set of marine infantry armor at a Quonset hut to replace my hospital gown.

There were cooking fires scattered throughout the encampment as the marines made their breakfasts. I asked one of the first men I came across if he was from Alpha Company, but he wasn't. Instead, he pointed me in the right direction.

I thanked the private and moved on, making my way through the large swathe of cubicle tents until I reached Alpha Company's quadrant of the battalion's field. Just like the last time I had seen my old company back in Camp Hathcock—when the Covenant presence on Reach was still breaking news—I didn't recognize most of the faces I saw.

I left the 9th Force Recon fourteen years ago…a lot had changed in fourteen years. Most of the men and women I had known were no longer part of Alpha…they were most likely dead. There were still a few familiar faces, though…people I wouldn't mind fighting with again.

"_Dempsey!_" I shouted into the midst of the seventy or so marines that made up Alpha Company, not finding myself in the mood for searching every single part of the camp for my old friends. "Matthew Dempsey, where the hell are ya?"

"Well, fuck me; that sounds like Alley Garris, back from the dead!" a familiar voice chuckled from over at one of the cooking fires.

I looked over in the direction of the voice and smiled, seeing members from my old squad sitting around that cooking fire, helping themselves to the grits and oatmeal MREs that we usually chose to eat in the morning, favoring the more savory meals for dinner.

"Back from the dead?" I arched an eyebrow as I walked right into Dempsey's waiting bear-hug, trying to embrace my oldest friend as tight as he was crushing me. "What the hell do you mean _back from the dead?_ Who told you I was dead? How long have you known me—_Ow! T_he ribs, man…watch the ribs!"

"Sorry," Dempsey released me. "No one told me you were dead, but after knowing that the city you were in got _glassed_..." My oldest friend explained as he stepped back. "You can see why jumping to conclusions was pretty easy, in my case?"

"_Out of my way,_" a short, freckled woman with closely-cropped blond hair and green eyes pushed Dempsey aside. Though I had spent some time with her back in Camp Hathcock, it hadn't been enough. I could have spent a whole week—hell, a whole _month_ with her, and I still wouldn't be satisfied.

I managed a weak grin, through it was partially obscured by my facial hair, which was starting to get a little bit longer than military regulation. It also felt weird not having a faceplate to hide my face all the time…now, whenever I made an expression, people would see it. That would take some readjusting.

"Hey, Soph—_whoa!_" I ducked midsentence, barely avoiding Devereux's fist, which whistled over my head, brushing the top of my hair.

She snapped something in French before remembering that I could barely speak the language. Reverting back to English, she said, "Don't you _Hey __Soph_ me; New Alexandria was overrun and fried! You were _dead!_ I cried for two fucking days over you!"

"She did," Dempsey interjected.

"Sorry to disappoint," I straightened back up and stopped Devereux's next blow by catching her wrist. That second blow really didn't have any strength behind it, though. She continued to push against me for a few seconds, and I waited patiently for the initial wave of emotions to abate.

Finally, Devereux relented, falling into a warm embrace—not quite as painful as the one I endured from Dempsey. "That was the first time I actually thought you were _gone_… Before, we never saw each other, but we always knew the other was alive...now, though..." she admitted, before a wan grin tugged at one of the corners of her mouth. "I'm glad I was wrong."

Dempsey and Devereux led me over to the cooking fire, where nine other marines were sitting around the pot, finishing up the last of the grits. I recognized Miguél Esposito and Anwar Singh from my time in Alpha Company, but everyone else was unfamiliar to me.

"So, how badly did you guys get mauled?" I asked the marines as I took a seat between Esposito and Devereux.

"What makes you think we did?" Singh asked, arching an eyebrow in my direction as he spooned up the last of the grits.

I returned the raised eyebrow. "Mostly the fact that I walked into the battalion CP and found a Captain running things. What happened to the Colonel? Where's Hasegawa and McCandlish, and all the others? You seem to have an officer shortage."

"Bad luck happened to them; _that's_ what," Dempsey sighed. "A week ago, our command staff was having a meeting in a bunker when a plasma bolt collapsed it on their heads. The only company commander who wasn't at the meeting was Captain Litovski from Charlie, so Division bumped him up to acting Battalion CO...of course, that was when we were still part of a division. Ever since we pulled back to Aszod, we haven't heard from our other units."

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. "So…they're all _dead?_"

"_Hm?_" Dempsey looked up at me, not quite understanding what I said, but quickly realized and shook his head. "No, no; they're still alive. They _almost_ died…they were all comatose when we got them medevaced onto a nearby frigate. Don't know what happened to 'em beyond that…hope they got out of the system, though…"

As Dempsey spoke, a shrill whistle blared out over the field. All of the marines quickly finished up their breakfast

I picked up my helmet and put it on, standing up as Esposito doused the cooking fire. "Don't tell me we're marching all the way to the shipyards..." I groaned, noticing the marines quickly packing up their cubicles and forming up into squads and platoons before moving off towards the road.

"Well, we don't exactly have an abundance of dropships or warthogs," Esposito shrugged, slinging his MA5B over his shoulder. "We _do_ have an abundance of legs and feet, though."

"I'm getting too old for this horseshit..." I muttered as we set off towards the road. I heard an agreeing grunt from Dempsey and another marine who seemed to be closer to my age than the others.

"Platoon, on me!" Dempsey bellowed as we reached the road. I frowned for an instant, but quickly remembered that Dempsey was a platoon Staff Sergeant. There didn't seem to be any lieutenant in charge of this particular platoon, so Dempsey was a de facto platoon leader.

The other platoon leaders—also sergeants—got their men squared away, and the entire force of Alpha Company led the march down the road leading to the ship-breaking yards, seventy or so kilometers away.

I hurried up to the front of the formation, where two men were conversing. One of them had a single silver bar adorning his shoulder straps, which would make him Lieutenant Mulligan, the CO of Alpha. The other was a Sergeant Major; the chief NCO of the entire battalion. He was a burly, barrel-chested man with a face full of gray whiskers and wrinkles, and one of the thickest Scottish accents I've ever heard.

"Lieutenant Mulligan, sir," I snapped a quick salute to the company commander. His bars were silver, marking him as a 1st Lieutenant, as opposed to a 2nd Lieutenant, who would have had gold bars. That was good; 1st Looeys were experienced lieutenants, not the kind that were fresh out of Basic.

The El-Tee returned the salute, casting me a sidelong glance. "You're that ODST that Captain Litovski told me about, aren't you?" he asked.

"Guilty," I replied. "Until I can find my old unit, or join a new one, I'm your gun."

"Glad to hear it," the Lieutenant nodded. "I'll hold you to that."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, sir," I saluted one more time, and turned back, heading down the formation until I reached Dempsey's platoon.

We settled into a dull routine of walking. I took swigs of water from my canteen at regular intervals to avoid dehydration; the sun was out in its full glory, today, and it would only get hotter as the morning progressed into the afternoon.

This prediction turned out to be true. By the time the clock in the HUD of my helmet's eyepiece edged into one o'clock, we were all working up some pretty good sweats.

I could only imagine how soldiers had done this in the old days, before vehicles had been revolutionized. Walking for days on end while having to lug a musket, a bag full of lead, and enough rations and supplies to keep you fed for a while…

They hadn't had warthogs to transport their extra ammo, or dropships to move them from Point A to Point B. They had to _walk_. And here we were, walking across seventy kilometers of fields, woods, streams, and hills, and our legs were beginning to feel like they were on fire. Had soldiers gotten softer over the centuries?

_No,_ a voice snapped in my mind, and I quickly saw its logic. Maybe soldiers from the old days had more physical hardships to deal with, but they never had to deal with fighting enemies armed with automatic plasma weapons. They never had to deal with losing entire planets to genocidal aliens.

Soldiers never got soft; they simply adapted. Still…that didn't change the fact that I hated marching.

I was also stuck with an MA5B. When I really thought about it, I think this was the first time I would ever actually use a standard-issue assault rifle in battle; before I was issued a sniper rifle, I had always used a BR55…and an M6J before that. MA5Bs were good weapons, I'll give 'em that…but I'm a sharpshooter, and it didn't quite feel right.

Not that I'm incapable with an assault rifle; quite the opposite. I'm a marine before I'm a sniper; my situation was that my talents were put to better use with more accurate weapons. If I had to use an assault rifle, though…well, so be it.

And besides…that good ole' sixty-round magazine would be fun to use. That was the silver lining, I suppose.

We went mostly in silence for a good part of the day's march. There really wasn't all that much to say…and besides, talking required energy. Energy that was better spent concentrating on not keeling over with heat exhaustion.

"So, you gonna tell us how the hell you got out of New Alexandria?" Dempsey asked after a while, unable to wait for me to 'open up', or whatever.

"I took a pelican out," I shrugged.

"Well, no shit," Dempsey rolled his eyes. "How did you survive New Alexandria getting fried? Entire battalions have disappeared in that soup; units we haven't heard a peep from since the 23rd. How did you get out, but not your squad?"

"_Oui,_ this is something I'd like to hear, too," Devereux added.

"I took a hit to the chest, okay?" I sighed, not really wanting to talk about what had happened in that foxhole, but I already knew Dempsey wouldn't leave it alone. We had known each other too long to be able to hold secrets like that from each other. Same thing went for Devereux. "I was medevaced off the lines into New Alexandria, and Doc Patrikos ended up putting me back together _and_ taking me down to a fallout shelter, where we all survived the glassing. There. Satisfied?"

"No," Dempsey flat-out answered. "It takes weeks for plasma burns to heal. How are you able to fight, right now?"

"Because I never got hit by plasma!" I snapped. "A Brute Stalker chose to attack _my_ foxhole, and it gutted me with its bayonets! End of story! Now can we _please_ stop talking about this?"

"Well, see, _that_ makes sense," Dempsey conceded. "Stab wounds are a lot easier to heal than plasma burns. Was that really so hard?"

"It was probably the single most painful thing that's ever happened to me, short of _this,_" I pointed to the scar on the left side of my face, put there by the three-mandibled Elite Major all those years ago. "Would _you_ like to go into detail about getting stabbed in the fucking chest?"

"Okay, maybe you have a point, there," Dempsey shrugged. "Still…I got speared by needle rifle spikes on Jericho, but I have no trouble talking about it. Hell, it even makes certain members of the opposite sex-"

"Don't want to hear it," I quelled my oldest friend. "Unlike you, I don't go chasing tail at every opportunity I get; using stories of my wounds to make two-bit pieces of ass think I'm some sort of noble knight."

Dempsey blinked once. "Well, you don't know what you're missing, then! What with that big, honking scar of yours, you could pass for a fucking king! _The man who fought an Elite hand-to-hand and lived_. Oh, I could just see it… _Damn,_ I wish Emerald Cove was still around…"

"You know I can hear everything you're saying?" Devereux arched an eyebrow.

That was enough to shut Dempsey up. There was no real hostility between the three of us—this was how we'd interacted with each other since Verus III. But Dempsey, even in his middle age, hadn't changed a bit—when he got on a roll, it sometimes took a slap on the upside of his head to make him shut the hell up…

It would take a lot more than that to shake our friendship. Bonds forged in combat were the strongest ones around. Still…I noticed Devereux's expression darken noticeably at Dempsey's mention of Emerald Cove, which struck me as odd.

Devereux was from Sigma Octanus IV—a colony with predominately French roots. Hell, the battle as Sigma Octanus was one of the precious few the UNSC had _won,_ these past few years. What significance would Emerald Cove hold for her? It was a beautiful place—white beaches, emerald water, palm trees... Pretty much a paradise. And the brothels there...well, let's just say that they contributed to Emerald Cove's status as a 'paradise'. But that wasn't something that would piss Devereux off.

When I voiced these questions to her, she fell silent for a moment before turning away and concentrating on walking, not giving me any answer, other than, "I'd rather you not talk about that place."

As the sun set and night began to settle in, the sergeants—at the behest of their superiors—got the battalion off the road and onto the nearest hill, where every quickly started setting up a camp identical to the one that we had broken down this morning. Normally, it was customary to get up early, march all throughout the morning, then stop to make camp sometime in the early to mid afternoon, which would give us a chance to set up camp and establish defensive positions and pickets.

However, Captain Litovski seemed to be favoring speed over everything else. While this would leave the battalion vulnerable in the event of an attack, moving too slow would result in our not reaching the ship-breaking yards before getting fried. With this in mind, we marched all day.

It was paying off, though; we had to have covered forty or so kilometers today.

Tomorrow, we would reach the ship-breaking yards…and I was willing to wager that the Covies were waiting for us.


	60. IV Chapter 60: Aszod

Chapter Sixty: Aszod

**August 28, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

I blew a few stray strands of Devereux's hair out of my face as we started getting up. The battalion was waking up at 0300, today, so it was my job as a senior NCO to get up before that in order to assist with the wake-up call. We were also going to be eating a light, trail breakfast comprising mostly of granola bars and ration pouches of orange juice—the shipyards were near, and Litovski wanted us to get there before evening tomorrow. The Captain seemed to be in an even greater hurry than before, if that was at all possible.

Because I had joined the 9th straight out of New Alexandria, I didn't have a cubicle to sleep in. Luckily, Devereux was kind enough to…ehm…_share_ hers. I think I got about an hour of sleep.

I managed to slip on my fatigues and battle armor, and crawl out of the cubicle without rousing Devereux. That wasn't too hard, though; she was a sound sleeper, even on the front lines.

There were no lights set up around our camp. The only place where there was artificial light was the battalion CP, where Captain Litovski was no doubt conferring with his company commanders at this moment.

Besides that, the moonlight was enough to allow me to see what I was doing. It was full, tonight…or at least very close to being full. I grabbed my MA5B, which was resting on top of my helmet, and slung it over my shoulder, picking up my helmet afterwards.

"Morning, sunshine," Dempsey said to me as I stretched out my arms and legs. My oldest friend was walking over from a nearby cooking fire, holding two tin cups filled with what could only be coffee.

"Give me that," I grunted, accepting one of the cups and taking a long sip. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes as the warmth of the coffee spread down to my stomach. I wouldn't need that warmth once the sun started roasting Aszod, but right now it was chilly. It really wasn't all that cold compared to a winter day, but it might as well have been when you compared it to the heat of midday. "Ohh, that's good...that's real good..."

"You're welcome," Dempsey muttered, taking a sip from his own cup.

I caught the vibe and was quick to say, "_Thank you,_ kind sir, for the coffee."

Dempsey's only reply to the quip was a low chuckle.

I headed with Dempsey over to the nearby cooking fire. There were a handful of other NCOs clustered around the flames, drinking coffee as well. Staff Sergeant Geoffries—the only other man I recognized from the old days—gave me a nod in greeting as he poured some coffee from the pot into his cup.

"Who's the new guy?" one of the women, a corporal, asked.

"He ain't a new guy, Levinson," Geoffries corrected the Corporal. "He was running a squad here under McCandlish when you were busy trying to lose your virginity in middle school."

A rumble of laughter rose from the ring of NCOs, excluding Corporal Levinson, of course.

"When did you serve in Alpha?" another sergeant asked.

"I joined the 9th in '31," I replied, taking another sip of coffee. "Spent five years in the mud on Harvest, then got transferred to this company just in time for Arcadia."

"Yeah, but when did you leave?"

"Uh…" I frowned for a moment, sifting through the dusty old memories. "I left after New Harmony, in '37."

The Sergeant nodded. "I missed you by three years, then. What outfit did you get transferred to?"

"I joined the 105th Expeditionary Force," I replied, not going any further into detail. Technically, I was part of Special Warfare Group Archangel, which was a sub-sect of the 105th under ONI Black Ops command…but that wasn't something you just went around _telling_ people.

I didn't need to give my specific unit, though. Mentioning the 105th did the job in of itself.

"Holy shit; you're a Helljumper?" one of the other corporals—the youngest of the men and women gathered around the fire—asked, his eyebrows sliding up his forehead a fraction.

"Well, I guess there's no better way to describe what we do," I grinned.

"I'll probably never do it in my lifetime, so tell me…what's it like going feet-first into Hell?" Staff Sergeant Geoffries asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but frowned when no solid reply actually came to mind. Dropping into battle was never something that got boring—I was just as scared shitless before every drop I participated as I was in the one before that—but actually _describing_ it…

"Hard to say," I answered. "Feels like being in a freezer…then suddenly it gets all blistering hot, and you feel like your eyeballs are gonna get popped out…then you start getting shaken all over the place once you hit the mesosphere…"

The marines winced as I described the huge jolt experienced after deploying the drag chute, and then again as I described the even larger one that came after making landfall.

"I got a lot of respect for you guys, don't get me wrong," one of the sergeants assured me before getting to his main point, "but you Helljumpers are outta your fuckin' minds. Ain't no way _I'd_ ever get in one of those titanium coffins…"

"Well, there you go," my grin widened into a fully-fledged smile. "You can't be sane and be a Helljumper at the same time. Sane people don't climb into metal boxes and drop down through atmospheres. That's fucking crazy."

"How can you explain the 105th's status as one of the best fighting units in the entire military if you're all apparently insane, then?" Corporal Levinson asked.

I arched an eyebrow at the Corporal, who seemed to be on the hunt for some verbal jousting. Well, she was welcome to some. "Well, Corporal, you don't have to be a serial killer or an asylum patient to be insane._ Everyone's_ got a little insanity in them; even you. Helljumpers...well, we just have a little bit _more,_ that's all."

At 0300, the klaxon went off—not exactly your average Reveille, but it did the job just as well. Just like any other morning on a base, though, it didn't rouse _every_ marine from their nice, restful sleep…so that's where the NCOs came in.

We roved around through the clusters of cubicles, hunting down the sleepers like the Grim Reaper seeking out all the newly departed. We found them just as easily, too; waking up the deep sleepers with swearing, shouting, and kicking. One sergeant even splashed cold water in a few privates' faces, which woke them up with equal efficiency.

The officers emerged from the battalion CP and started conferring with their NCOs, getting everyone prepped and organized for the day's march. We weren't going to be slowed down by breakfast—not this early in the morning—so once the cubicles were packed and the NCOs' cooking fires stamped out, we formed up into platoons and companies and hit the road.

We marched by moonlight. If there hadn't been a full moon out, Litovski would have had to wait until sunrise to start marching…but there was, so he didn't. Though Nature had the ability to royally screw us over, it also had the ability to help us, when it so chose. This seemed to be one of those times.

"So, apparently we're in really deep shit," a kid from Esposito's squad—which had been mine, in ages past—was saying as I made my way through the ranks of Dempsey's platoon. I think his name was Deckman…or Decker…something like that. He went on to say something to his buddy that I didn't catch, as I had already moved out of earshot.

I stopped marching for a few seconds and waited for the marine to catch up before initiating conversation.

"Come again, Deckman?" I asked the private, overhearing his conversation with his buddy.

"It's Decker, sir," the private corrected me.

_Damn_.

"I don't really give a rat's ass what your name is, son," I grunted. "What I _do_ give a rat's ass about is why you think we're in deep shit. What have you heard?"

"Well, sir, uh…" Decker gulped, collecting his thoughts. "I was on my way back from picket duty last night, and I walked past the battalion CP. I, uh…I might've heard Sergeant Major Macintyre and Captain Litovski talking, and…well…" the Private's voice started to trail off, but he cleared his throat and pressed on. "The 109th Regiment was less than a day's march behind us, but contact with them was lost. That's all I heard."

I continued moving up through the ranks, mulling over this new piece of knowledge. Losing contact with a unit at a time like now usually meant one thing: there was no one left in that unit to send a transmission.

Dempsey gave an unsurprised grunt when I told him what I had heard from Decker. "Yeah, I figured. The division that was moving to our west went dark last night, too; and just before 0230 hours this morning, right around when you and I were waking up, we lost contact with the extraction point at Paszuk."

"But that means..." I frowned, then swore quietly when the full implications of what Dempsey was saying hit me. "That means the ship-breaking yard is the only extraction left on this side of Eposz...and the Covies have cut off any approach to it. No _wonder_ Litovski was in such a hurry to start the march this morning..."

Dempsey gave a wide grin. "Welcome to the 9th Force Recon Battalion, one of the only units left on Reach that isn't completely fucked. You lucked out when you found Doc Patrikos in that hospital."

"That's impossible..." I murmured. "How...? How can everything go to shit like this in a single day? Things were pretty bad yesterday, sure, but we still had a _line_. We still had _safe zones_. We still had _extraction points_..."

"Oh, I'm sure the lines still exist; our forces haven't been routed _quite_ yet," Dempsey shrugged. "But seeing as those troops now have no way to get to any of the remaining extraction points...they might as well be dead."

"You sound awfully happy, considering the circumstances."

Dempsey wasn't fazed in the slightest. "I'm the one with a way off this rock; isn't that cause enough to be in good spirits?"

"In _better_ spirits," I corrected him. "Not necessarily _good_."

We reached our destination around 1300 hours—early afternoon. The terrain had gradually become more and more desert-like and rugged until it started to resemble the Viery Badlands that I had fought through several weeks ago. The road to the ship-breaking yards became a long, winding path as it navigated its way through the buttes, canyons, and cliffs. At some points, the road became a cliffside ledge with room enough for four or five men to walk side-by-side. There were bridges we had to cross, and a couple of tunnels we had to go through…but, eventually, we made it.

And not a moment too soon, either—banshees were beginning to streak by overhead, no doubt reconnoitering for potential Human resistance, for which I think we would qualify.

The graveyard where the stripped vessels resided was down in a massive plain below us. I don't know if there were more areas in the ship-breaking yards that we wouldn't see, but we arrived at one of the facilities utilized to strip down and dismantle UNSC ships.

The facilities seemed to be built into the cliff face of the mountain we were on, as well as the naturally-occurring shelves that jutted out over the plain below. We had arrived at one of those shelves—the road traveled through a cleft in the rock before opening out into a broader space, surrounded by the high cliffs on almost all sides. To the left as we entered the area was the side where the ground fell away into the mountainside and the plains.

One frigate—the UNSC _Commonwealth_—was parked on the drydock. Well, to be technical, it really wasn't a frigate anymore; the workers here had stripped the majority of the _Commonwealth's_ lateral armor away, exposing the vessel's interior. Only a small portion of the frigate's forward section lay across this small culvert in the mountainside. The entire aft of the frigate—including the remainder of its engines—extended farther back into the cliffs, out of the shelf.

The entire miniature valley spanned about half a mile in width, and was a bit shorter in length. It seemed smaller than it actually was…maybe because being surrounded by high cliffs and walls on almost every side gave a sort of 'closed-in' feeling.

The gutted length of the _Commonwealth_ rested across the width of the shelf. It was suspended about ten yards above the ground by the drydock—a series of heavy metal scaffolding, platforms, and staircases. It was actually possible to walk up the stairs and _into_ the lower decks of the gutted _Commonwealth_. The frigate's lateral armor had been removed, exposing those decks to the elements. You could see through to the other side.

It was pretty strange, seeing a naval vessel in such a way. Weirdness aside, though, it would serve as a perfect line of defense.

Even as we marched towards the _Commonwealth,_ I was eyeing the edge of the drydock platform and the lower decks of the frigate. We could post sharpshooters and rocket jockeys up there…we could also station a few heavy fifties further on back to cover the ground approach that ran under the frigate's belly.

Behind the _Commonwealth_ were the factories, which contained the smelting facilities used to break down the scrap components of the gutted starships. Those factories were also what lay between us and the drydocks, which was where the actual extraction would take place.

For the next fifteen minutes or so, Captain Litovski ventured on into the factories, heading for the drydocks so that he could set up his battalion CP close to the place where we would be pulled out. It would also be our last line of defense in the event of an attack on our position.

When Litovski returned, he called for a meeting of all officers and senior NCOs. Even though I had no real official position in the 9th, right now, I didn't feel like being left in the dark, so I joined Dempsey, Geoffries, Lieutenant Mulligan, and all the others as they followed the Captain through the factories and the smelting facility. After heading down some long corridors, climbing onto a few catwalks, and walking up several flights of stairs, I found myself at the exit for Platform D.

The drydock was on the other side of a gaping chasm. Platform D was situated on an outcropping of the mountain which the ship-breaking yards were built into. It was a somewhat complicated set-up; the exit from the corridor led out onto a tiered walkspace that ran along the length of the wall to our right. The stairs in front led down to a lower level, which the control building was located on, to our left. On the lowest level was a wide metal floor with a loading platform of some sorts taking up most of the center. Lastly was the actual landing pad, which was situated in the far corner of Platform D, accessible by another flight of stairs.

On the far left and right of the shelf which Platform D was built on were stretches of bare land, as well. There were several large boulders and rock formations dotting these two area.

Captain Litovski had set up shop in the small control building, overlooking the rest of the platform. The interior of the structure was a storage hold, but there were two stairways leading up to its roof. There was a smaller, single room built on the roof, taking up about half the space. That room also opened up to the rest of the roof, which was exposed to the elements.

"I have good news and bad news," Captain Litovski said to all of us who were assembled in front of the CP. "I'll start with the good news. The UNSC _Terranova_ evacuated most of our forces from this area yesterday, and we seem to have missed them. The good news is that we aren't fucked yet; I've been informed that the…uh…" Litovski frowned, trying to remember something that seemed to be at the tip of his tongue. One of his HQ staffers whispered something into his ear, and he gave several quick nods as he recalled. "A cruiser called the _Pillar of Autumn_ will be arriving here to pick up some sort of package. We can hitch a ride on that ship and get the hell out of here."

"And the bad news?" one of the three lieutenants—not Mulligan—asked. I rolled my eyes; why was this guy in such a hurry to get his spirits crushed?

"The bad news..." Captain Litovski took a moment to clear his throat before continuing. "The _Pillar of Autumn_ isn't going to get here for another thirty-six hours."

Silence settled over our assembled group of NCOs. We were the veterans, the more battle-hardened of the battalion, and so we didn't go to pieces. A few of the younger corporals looked a little queasy, and the youngest of the three lieutenants muttered a few choice oaths under his breath, but other than that we took the news as impassively as statues. On the outside, at least...

On the inside, I was swearing up a storm. Thirty-six hours was one fuck of a long time! Having Covies closing in on your rear and both of your flanks made it even longer... I mean, sure, we had been able to repel Covenant attacks on our defensive positions, before...but that was when we were part of a larger line in an even larger front. This time, it was just us holed up in a bunch of buildings. No one else. The entire strength of the Covenant forces in the area would be focused only on us.

We were truly alone.

Finally, the silence was broken by Sergeant Major Macintyre. "Well, that's that, lads," he declared gruffly. "Looks like this slice o' paradise is gonna be our home for a little while."

"Our cemetery, you mean..." someone muttered, but not loud enough to discern who it was.

"No disrespect intended, sir," one of the corporals began, "but how are we supposed to hold this position for that long? The Covies are right behind us; they'll be here at least by midnight."

A mirthless, resigned smile crept over Litovski's face. "Then we better stop wasting time and get to work, marine."


	61. IV Chapter 61: First Impressions

Chapter Sixty-One: First Impressions

**August 28, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

I paced down along the length of our second line of defenses. Marines were hard at work laying down sandbags, digging foxholes, and constructing earthworks. Though it wasn't the first line of defense against a Covenant attack, it was constructed along the top of the incline leading up to the ship-breaking yards' factories, which was a much more solid and defendable position than the line ahead of it.

We had been working nonstop ever since our arrival early this afternoon. It was evening, now, and we were taking full advantage of the last vestiges of daylight before having to resort to lanterns and the factory lights to illuminate the area. We had established several lines of defense, each of which would serve as a fallback point for the line ahead of it.

Our first line of defense, designated 'Firstline' by Captain Litovski, had been set up by elements of Charlie Company along the lower decks of the gutted UNSC _Commonwealth_. This line comprised mostly of sharpshooters and riflemen, along with a couple of heavy fifties. We all knew that this line wasn't going to hold very long...but we'd still make the Covies pay for taking it.

Alpha and Delta Companies were manning Red Line, the second round of defenses, which had been set up in front of the entrances to the factories. We commanded the entire approach to the rest of the facility. From here, we would be able to cover the two or three places where ground forces could move under the belly of the _Commonwealth_. Once our sharpshooters were driven back here from Firstline, they would be able to help pin down any important Covies trying to shoot at us from the frigate itself, as well.

We also had one trick up our sleeve for the Covies' forerunners, which hopefully won't come into play until later.

I don't know if Red Line would be able to hold long, either, but it would definitely hold longer than Firstline. And the Covenant would pay an even steeper butcher's bill to wrest it away from us. Regardless, our fallback point was Yellow Line, which comprised of completely man-made defenses—crates, palettes, forklifts, sandbags, etc. etc. This line was manned by Bravo Company, and it was situated at the point where the smelting facilities met with the building that connected it with the drydock. That area was a large, wide-open, garage-like space, where it would be possible to keep the Covies bottled up in the corridors for a time.

Blue Line, which was being run by the rest of Charlie Company, was pretty much right behind Yellow Line. It was going to try its best to hold the Covies out of the corridors that led to the drydocks. After the Covies broke through there, all that was left to defend was Platform D itself...our Alamo. If the Covenant ever made it back there, we were in pretty deep shit.

My line had been given use of the majority of the heavy fifties, as it was easier to mount them on our position, rather than lug them all the way up onto the frigate, where we would have to fall back from, anyway.

I gave a hand wherever I could, but the marines had things pretty well under control. After another couple of hours, the sun finally vanished, gone to brighten the other side of Reach. We had all been expecting the Covenant to make some sort of move before nightfall…but that did not seem to be on their agenda, so we posted watches and turned in for the night.

I was on the first watch, sharing one of the forward foxholes with Dempsey while most of the company caught up on their sleep. There were only a handful of others on watch, here—if the Covies were attacking, the guys up on Firstline would be the ones who would alert the rest of us. Having watches posted on our line was necessary, but not quite as important.

If we needed to, there was a spotlight that we could switch on to light up the approach to Red Line. Until we had cause to flip it on, though, it would remain dark. For now, the only illumination in our foxhole was the dim, red glow of our cigarettes.

"Feels nice, tonight," I remarked, exhaling a lungful of smoke into the air. It _did_ feel nice; it was probably in the high sixties or low seventies…warm enough to keep from shivering, and cool enough to keep from sweating.

Dempsey did likewise, actually managing to blow out something closely resembling a smoke circle. "Yeah…sure as hell beats that winter on Verus III, eh?"

"You can say that again," I hummed in agreement.

"Sure as hell beats that winter on Verus III, eh?"

"Fuck you."

Dempsey rumbled with muted laughter. "Oh, Alley…you've gone too long without having anyone getting under that thick Gunnery Sergeant skin of yours."

"No, not _anyone,_ Demp; just you," I corrected my oldest friend. "Anyone else would have gotten a fist down the throat by now."

We settled into another long stretch of comfortable silence, content to relax in the mild temperature and enjoy our daily dose of nicotine. When my cigarette burned down to a stub, I flicked it away and replaced it with another one.

"Ask you something?" I grunted over to my oldest friend after another few minutes.

"Even if I say _no,_ you're going to anyway," Dempsey replied. "Fire away."

"I never got a chance to ask you this earlier, but it's been nagging at me for a long time, and _she_ won't talk about it, so... Not long after I left the 9th, back in '37, I didn't hear from Soph for three years," I told my friend. "When I wrote her, I got nothing back. When I sent a COM to her, I got nothing back. And when I asked her about it, she closed up tighter than a bank vault. What the hell was going on?"

"Hell if I know," Dempsey shrugged. "She came down with pneumonia not long after you left, and Doc Patrikos had her sent to the nearest major military hospital, which was on Emerald Cove—which makes sense, considering the number of us grunts who used to go there for our shore leaves."

"And while you're at it, tell me why she tenses at the mere _mention_ of that place," I added, remembering Deverux's reaction on the road to Dempsey's comment about Emerald Cove. "You guys weren't there when it got glassed, were you?"

"Naw," Dempsey shook his head. "We were fighting on Avalon IV when the Covies torched the place. Though now that you bring that up…"

"Hm?"

"Well…she wasn't able to rejoin us for nearly a year—our battalion was jumping from star system to star system, and she had no way of reaching us until she finally caught up to us on Maris in early '39," Dempsey recounted, frowning slightly as he delved deep into his memory. "But she wasn't too bad, then. A little quieter and more reclusive than before, but she was fine. It was right around when Emerald Cove got glassed that she started acting up…"

"Acting up?" I echoed. "What do you mean _acting up?_"

"She started smoking a lot more," Dempsey sighed. "Developed a bad drinking problem, too…it was all-out depression. She ended up having to get her liver replaced after a few years. There may have even been some drugs involved…it was just a bad time for her."

"_Jesus Christ,_" I muttered under my breath. When I had spoken with her several weeks ago at Camp Hathcock, Devereux had mentioned going through a depression, but I never imagined it had actually been this bad. "_Why,_ though? Why was she depressed? Don't tell me it was because I left; I could understand her being disappointed for a little bit, but she wouldn't suffer a three-year-long _depression_ because of that…"

"No, it wasn't you," Dempsey confirmed. "I don't know what it was. She never talks about it. I've only asked once, years ago, and I haven't asked again since. Don't ask her about it _now,_ either…she needs her head in the game, right now. Maybe if we get off this rock, she'll talk to you about it…"

I wasn't satisfied with my friend's advice, but I knew it was for the best. Now wasn't the time to worry about thing that had happened over a decade ago…it was a time to worry about the Covies who were going to land on us with two feet at any time.

Thankfully, the Covenant were polite enough to not hit us while we were sleeping. Around 0100 hours, the second watch went on duty, allowing Dempsey and I to snag some 'z's.

I woke to the wonderful sound of gunfire—not exactly your average alarm clock, but it did the job just as well. Gentle sunlight was shining down on us and the sky was a light yellow-ish pink hue, choked through with veils of smoke. It was mid-morning.

"_Up!_" I screamed, rising from my foxhole and moving up along the line, rousing anyone who was still asleep. "Firstline's made contact! _Get up!_"

Lieutenant Mulligan got onto the COM, demanding a sit-rep from Staff Sergeant Lehman, who was in charge of the portion of Charlie Company manning Firstline.

"_Just grunts, sir!_" the Staff Sergeant replied. "_We'll handle 'em, just like the Captain told us to!_"

Once I had made my rounds, I returned to my foxhole with Dempsey. My oldest friend was cleaning a spot of grime off of his MA5B. I slid down beside him, grabbed my assault rifle, and did a quick field inspection. Satisfied that it wouldn't bitch on me in the middle of a firefight, I rested it against the lip of the foxhole and crawled into a firing position.

The gunfire up at Firstline sounded weak and sporadic. This had been planned—when the grunts came in as a probing force, the sharpshooters and riflemen manning Firstline would make it seem like we had extremely weak defenses and shoddy discipline. They did this exceptionally well.

Many of the grunts made it past Firstline's inefficient lines of fire, running past, around, and under the _Commonwealth_. The NCOs and officers all along my line ordered us to hold our fire. There was a sporadic burst of weaponsfire here or there, but this order was still more or less obeyed.

The remainder of the grunts were then quickly taken out from behind by the sharpshooters of Firstline, who had relocated to our side of the _Commonwealth's_ exposed lower deck. Once the grunts were all taken out, those sharpshooters returned back to their old positions. The battlefield fell quiet once more.

Once the _all-clear_ was given by Staff Sergeant Lehman, the collective breath we had all been holding was released.

"What the hell was the point of that?" a private groused in the next foxhole over. "I wanted to kill me some gas-suckers; why do them boys up there manning the _Commonwealth_ get all the fun?"

"Because they just made our defenses look weak," Dempsey said to the loudmouthed Private. "Only a few of 'them boys up there' were actually shooting at those grunts. When the Covies attack again, they won't be expecting very much...then they'll get slammed. Don't worry; there'll be plenty of gas-suckers to kill later on…"

Dempsey proved to be something of a fortune-teller; barely half an hour later, Staff Sergeant Lehman reported that his men had been engaged once more by Covenant infantry. Proper infantry this time—jackals, skirmishers, and Elites, by the sounds of it.

The staccato thunder of gunfire that had erupted up ahead definitely supported this claim. I couldn't see what was happening up on the other side of the _Commonwealth,_ but—judging from the noise—it seemed like Lehman's men were taking quite a bit of heat. I could hear the distinct hiss of plasmafire interspersed with our lead; the Covies were really setting their noses to the grindstone on this one.

"God _damn,_ this fucking blows..." Dempsey growled, drumming an irregular beat on the stock of his MA5B. "Getting sodomized by the Covenant is one thing, but sitting tight and letting it happen to _others_ is worse..."

I had no good reply to that, other than an agreeing nod.

There weren't any banshees hitting us, either; again, Firstline had done a good job of advertising our 'weakness'. That first skirmish lasted nearly forty-five minutes, ending with the retreat of the Covenant infantry. The men and women manning Firstline had taken moderate casualties in the attack.

"You think they'll try for twice in a day?" Dempsey asked me.

"Don't you mean three times?"

"Nope," my friend shook his head. "The grunt turkey-shoot doesn't count."

I shrugged. "If our position was part of a larger front, I think they'd fall back and give themselves time to regroup before having another go. But we aren't part of a front…it's just us. They'll be back."

"Well, in the meantime…" Dempsey pulled out a third cigarette and lit up. I did likewise, borrowing Dempsey's light.

The Covenant didn't hit us again for another couple of hours. It was around 1600 hours when gunfire began to erupt from Firstline once more. What they were answered with, however, was _not_ your average plasmafire. Instead, I could hear the painfully familiar _shoop_ of a wraith firing its plasma mortar. The Covies were sending armor against us, now, intending to bull right through Firstline.

The Covenant completed this objective, too. The sharpshooters and riflemen stationed on Firstline didn't stand a chance against the Covenant armor; they broke ranks and fell back within two minutes of the engagement.

As the stragglers streamed in through Red Line, I turned onto my stomach and got ready to open fire. The familiar, curved, rounded shapes of Covie wraiths and ghosts appeared, making their way past the _Commonwealth_ with their boost thrusters.

The first couple enemy tanks broiled up in a large flash of white as they drove right over the LOTUS mines that we had planted there ahead of time. They had been activated just a minute or so ago—we didn't want them detonating when the grunts walked over them; that would have been wasteful.

We held our fire.

This was the last of the surprises we had up our sleeves for the initial attacks. In their impatience, the Covenant had sent a purely armored force against us; intending to crush Firstline—which it did. It did not need infantry to fulfill this goal. What they failed to consider was the real strength of Red Line, which they had yet to see.

Once the wraiths and ghosts were about three quarters of the way to our lines, Lieutenant Mulligan gave the signal over the COM to our rocket jockeys. Immediately after the signal was given, around a dozen men and women sprang up from the spider-holes we had been hard at work digging yesterday afternoon. Each of them had been positioned at different parts of the incline leading to our line. They had been cooped up in there for at least three or four hours, and now they got their chance to stretch their legs.

Each of the rocket jockeys aimed at a different Covie wraith—leaving the ghosts for our heavy fifties. Nine of the wraiths brewed up in flames, and the other three that were hit were still badly damaged.

"_Covering fire!_" Dempsey roared, opening fire with his assault rifle. That same order was also being shouted by NCOs up and down the entire line. Alpha and Delta Companies opened up on the ghosts—there wasn't a thing we could do about those wraiths until the rocket jockeys were back on our lines.

Not all of the rocket jockeys made it back, but the ones who did were quick to reload their tubes and open fire once more. The wraiths they didn't destroy were severely weakened, making it easy for the heavy fifties to crack them open like eggs.

A plasma bolt slammed into the ground not far from my foxhole. I didn't look to see if it hit anyone—if it _had,_ there wouldn't be anything left. Our line started to get peppered by plasmafire from the nose cannons of the ghosts and the remaining wraiths' turret gunners.

A shining blue orb suddenly thudded into the earthworks of our foxhole.

"_Down!_" I screamed, hurling myself back as far away as I could from the front of our foxhole. Dempsey did likewise, thudding down next to me just as the plasma grenade detonated. It felt like someone loaded all that dirt into a shotgun and fired it point-blank at our chests, faces, and stomachs.

"_Ow!_" Dempsey grunted, adding a few choice swearwords under his breath. "Now everything's gonna taste like dirt for a week…"

The Covenant armor did not relent. They continued to force plasma down our throats until our rocket jockeys or heavy fifties had taken every last one of them down. When the sharpshooters from Firstline had taken up their positions with us, they had done their best to pick off the drivers of the ghosts, who were mostly grunts.

When the last wraith detonated in a brilliant haze of blue and white flame, the battlefield settled into a gloomy silence, broken only by the sounds of groaning wounded.

After the skirmish, several of our guys went out into the carnage and commandeered those ghosts, driving them back up to Red Line so that we could add them to our arsenal. We also collected discarded Covie weaponry; if we ran out of ammo, we would have to start scavenging.

Dempsey and I spent the next hour or so rebuilding our foxhole and spitting dirt and gravel out of our mouths. I don't know how many casualties we took in that last attack, and I didn't _want_ to know. Getting casualty figures was for _after_ a battle, not _during_ one. If you want a man to fight well, you don't tell him how many of his comrades just died.

After some good, hard work, Red Line was somewhat repaired and ready for whatever came next. Or, at least, as ready as it _could_ be, given the circumstances. I had a bad feeling that what we had just survived was nothing more than an appetizer. The main entrée was on its way.

"Well, we've shown 'em we can fight," I remarked, smoke streaming out of my mouth as I spoke. When I finished talking, I took another puff.

"_Mm-hm,_" Dempsey sounded every bit as gloomy as me, no doubt because he knew what this entailed. "Yep; now that they can see that, they're gonna land on us with both feet, next time."


	62. IV Chapter 62: Bloody Arrow

Chapter Sixty-Two: Bloody Arrow

**August 30, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

The constant plasmafire was enough to light up the night. We still had spotlights and the facility lighting systems to rely on for visibility, but if we had shut all of it off, we still would have been able to see rather easily.

The Covies hit us again around 2300 hours last night. As I had expected, they had come prepared for a drawn-out fight. No more grunt raids, no more light infantry, no more purely armored forces intending to crush all resistance through sheer momentum.

Now, the Covenant brought in their more agile revenants, keeping the wraiths in reserve. Heavily-armed Elites were now pressing our line, supported by Hunter pairs and jackal infantry. We had been fighting hard for four or five hours, and had actually managed to keep them at bay. It wasn't a constant, unending attack—even the Covies wouldn't be able to maintain such an assault. It was more like a series of sharp jabs to our line, trying to press the weak points and make us break.

It was working, too. We had nearly lost Red Line five times, already; the Covenant had actually broken through our position on two of those occasions. It was through sheer luck that we were able to keep the line stable after that…but it was only a matter of time before the line went down for good. We would have to fall back into the factory entrances and get to Yellow Line on the other side of the smelting facilities.

This latest attempt to breach our lines was now going in full swing. I fired short, controlled bursts at the oncoming Elites. Every time I scored a hit, I would see an energy shield shimmer. Then the Elite would leap or roll to the side, and I would lose my target.

It balanced out, somewhat, though; there were occasions when I hit an Elite without an energy shield and took it out for good. I'm sure that whenever I hit a shielded Elite, there was another marine further down the line who would finish the job.

A plasma overcharge sizzled right past my head, prompting me to duck reflexively. I think it's curious how we instinctively duck or hunker down behind cover every time a shot lands close by. If a shot was going to hit you, you wouldn't know it until it burned away half your guts, making it pointless to duck at all.

Of course, it didn't matter how logical an argument one could make against ducking in such a manner—it was something I would always do.

Eventually, phantoms began sailing over our heads, no doubt to drop troops in behind us. Sure enough, I could faintly hear weaponsfire coming from deeper in the facility—that would be Charlie and Bravo Companies holding their respective lines. After a few seconds, I could then hear the thunderous _**BOOM**_ from the facility's mass driver. That mass driver—which was also located at Platform D; one of the reasons why Captain Litovski chose that position to be his command post—was our only defense against any form of aerial attack.

If the Covies tried landing forces on or around Platform D, they would get slammed with an unpleasant surprise. The mass driver wouldn't be able to do shit about the phantoms dropping troops into the factories, though. I hoped the guys on Yellow and Blue Lines would be able to clean those Covies up; Alpha and Delta Companies would be trapped out here on Red Line if they were unsuccessful.

"This is getting pretty fubar!" I grunted as I slapped a fresh magazine into my MA5B, keeping up my fire on a file of advancing Elites and grunts.

"You aren't kidding!" Dempsey shouted in agreement, taking aim at a pair of those grunts and opening fire. "We're so far up Shit Creek without a paddle, we just found the fucking ocean that it comes out of!"

"Yeah, and we're so far up that ocean that we're stuck in the fucking North Pole ice!"

"And we're so far up that North Pole ice that Santa Claus is filing for a restraining order against the Covies for taking his elves and having a f-"

"Okay, Demp, I get the idea!" I cut off my friend before he delved too deeply into that imagination of his. Sometimes, when we got on a roll, he could cross a line or two. Middle age hadn't changed him a bit.

The Covies kept on throwing themselves against our defenses. Zealots began to arrive with fuel rod guns, adding their own firepower to the fray. After our remaining sharpshooters were able to kill a number of the higher-ranking Elites, there was a lull in the onslaught. It was barely enough for us to clear some of our wounded and repair a few sections of the earthworks before we got slammed again.

The Covenant now sent in their wraiths alongside their infantry, no longer holding back in the slightest. We had pricked them at first, then we stung them, then we gave them several bloody noses and broken bones. Now they were pissed as all hell. They weren't underestimating us any longer, nor did they have any inhibitions about throwing their heaviest shit in our direction. The gloves were off.

There was another, larger lull when the sun came up, around 0630 hours. The Aszod ship-breaking yards had become yet another piece of Hell. Smoke was rising everywhere, creating a thick smog that could have been mistaken for mist had it not been so dark. Fires flickered here and there, and most of the structures in front of our line were either burning down, or they were piles of rubble. Burnt-out husks of Covie vehicles littered the entire approach to Red Line. The corpses of Covie troops were scattered amongst their armor.

On our end, there weren't very many of us who hadn't been wounded in some way. I had been able to stay in one piece so far; considering I had nearly died just a few days ago, I really didn't feel too guilty about this.

Though I never got any official casualty report, I think it was safe to say that a third or so of Alpha Company was down and wouldn't be getting back up. Same went for Delta Company. Lieutenant Mulligan was still alive and running the show out here, though, which was a stroke of luck. Officers usually always bought a plot when we needed them the most.

The medics made their rounds and started pulling the most seriously wounded marines off the lines, getting them back towards Platform D. I don't know why the Covies had stalled in their assault, at first, but the answer came about fifteen minutes later, in the form of a colossal shadow falling over our entire position.

Marines began pointing skyward, cheering and whooping at the top of their lungs. The large, unmistakable form of a UNSC cruiser passed by overhead, scouring the entire area with a powerful blast of hot wind. I closed my eyes to ward off the stinging dirt and dust that was kicked up by the cruiser's flyby.

"That's our ride, right?" Dempsey hollered over to me, gesturing at the cruiser as it came to a gradual halt and sank down below our field of view, presumably coming to rest on the drydock on the other side of the smelting facilities.

"_Alright, boys,_" Captain Litovski's voice crackled over the COM. "_That's our ride outta here_." Our acting battalion CO ordered all of our wounded to be moved to Platform D for immediate extraction. He then ordered Red Line to fall back, which was probably a good idea—I don't think Alpha and Delta Companies could have survived another assault like the last one.

Lieutenant Mulligan got things organized on our end. We rounded up all our wounded—putting some on stretchers and others on healthy marines' backs. Delta Company's surviving members hung back as a rearguard while we moved the wounded into the factories. I joined the remainder of Alpha Company, which was taking point _ahead_ of the wounded.

There had been a lot of Covie troops dropped into the ship-breaking yards behind Red Line; we ran into many of them as we made our way into the smelting facilities. A long corridor lay beyond the entrances to the factories, which ran all the way down to a larger room filled with large pieces of machinery whose functions I really didn't know.

There were jackals and a couple of Elites lined up on the tier of catwalks up above, and they opened fire on us as we edged into the room. One marine went down under a hail of needler shards. When the glowing purple projectiles super-combined and detonated…well, it wasn't pretty. The two marines nearest to the unfortunate man fell back, swearing and mouthing off at getting splattered with some of the remains of the dead marine.

"Terrence! Morales!" Dempsey called over two marines from his platoon. They were younger men—early twenties, small, thin, almost lanky…it made sense why Dempsey chose them when he gave them his next order: "On my mark, I want you boys to sprint."

The two marines muttered under their breaths; this didn't seem to be the first time they had done something like this. Regardless, they still stowed their rifles and started stretching their legs. Dempsey ignored their grumblings—soldiers were always entitled to grumbling. Any commander worth his salt would never interfere with grumbling; it was only when the grumblings prompted those soldiers to start disobeying orders that a commander should start cracking down.

But Dempsey was a grumbler himself—no one understood better than he. I won't try to compare who out of the two of us has had it rougher. I think it was fairly well-balanced—I had participated in missions that were much more dangerous and high-risk than line duty…but Dempsey had been manning the trenches all the time I was a Helljumper. I had seen more danger, but he had seen more combat.

Which was worse? More danger or more combat? A fewer amount of more powerful blows, or a larger amount of weaker blows? Oh, hell, there I go again…over-thinking these pointless questions, fancying myself the reincarnation of Aristotle or Plato.

"The moment those Covies start shooting, I want the rest of you to lay down covering fire. If a single millimeter of Morales or Terrence gets burned by plasma, so help me God you'll make the trip out of this star system hanging onto the _Pillar of Autumn's_ engines!"

Dempsey gave the order as Geoffries's platoon started moving up behind us. Morales and Terrence split up and ran in opposite directions—sprinting around both walls of the large room beyond towards the other side, dodging the resulting storm of plasmafire that came screaming their way.

While most of the Covies were occupied with trying to shoot down the two light-footed marines, Dempsey sent in one of his squads to provide a blanket of covering fire. The grunts and jackals up on the catwalks were hit from below, driven back from the rails. A few of their corpses thudded down to the floor, while the others simply sagged against the rail.

The rest of the platoon advanced into the room. A couple grenades were tossed up onto the tier, dazing the Covies up there for a few crucial moments. Marines tramped up the metal stairs leading up to the catwalks. I went up with them, keeping up my fire on the two Elites on the other side. The blasts from those earlier grenades had taken down most of their shields. The protective energy barriers quickly folded under the weight of a platoon's-worth of gunfire.

We moved across the catwalks and into one of the unlocked doors, which lead into another corridor. There were two or three groups of grunts moving down towards the other end. I don't know if they were heading into a fight, or if they had been in the room behind us and were fleeing for their lives. Either way, their lives were one thing they did not keep; a couple of them were dropped by our lead, and a couple more took out their brothers when their methane tanks sparked and detonated.

Dempsey ordered his platoon to hold position, allowing Geoffries's men to start taking point. 3rd Platoon passed by next, and Dempsey had his men fall in behind them. Up ahead, the corridor ran into another good-sized room that looked like a control space of some sort. The far wall was made up of window panels overlooking the large, hangar-sized smelting area beyond.

Gunfire and plasmafire were being traded between the Covenant invaders and more marines at the other end of the facility. We had reached Yellow Line.

"_Hold your fire! Friendlies moving up!_" Lieutenant Mulligan warned the guys manning Yellow Line over the COM. The gunfire did not completely stop, but most of it fell quiet.

Geoffries's men pacified the Covies holed up in the smelting facility's upper tiers, platforms, and catwalks. We moved slowly—if we went too fast, we'd get chewed up by Yellow Line.

"Hey, what happened to Red Line?" one of the marines manning a heavy fifty asked as we made our way past Yellow Line's fortifications.

"There is no Red Line, son," an older member of Dempsey's platoon replied. "We just got slammed. I'd saddle up, if I were you; _you're_ about to get hit, too."

There wasn't a lot of Covenant resistance between here and Blue Line—which was located in the storage yard outside this smelting facility. Bravo and Charlie Companies had done a good job of mopping up this general area of the yards.

We were met with similar inquiries from the marines manning Blue Line, but we told them the same thing we told Yellow Line; get ready for hell. Red Line had borne the brunt of the Covenant's attacks; now it was Yellow and Blue Lines' turn. Though, hopefully they wouldn't have to hold on for much longer. Once we got the wounded out of here, everyone else could follow.

Once we got past Blue Line, there was yet another series of corridors that we made our way through. There was an occasional grunt here or there that we had to put down, but nothing major.

I squinted as we stepped out the sunlight. Sergeant Major Macintyre was there to greet us. "Assume positions around the mass driver and its entrance," the chief NCO ordered us. "The Covies nearly cooked the bloody thing a few minutes ago, so we need extra manpower protecting it until we can get extracted. _Fall out!_"

Captain Litovski coordinated with the naval personnel on the docked _Pillar of Autumn_. Before long, several pelicans began arriving, starting to ferry our wounded out of here and onto the cruiser, where they could be properly cared for.

Alpha and Delta Companies finally got a chance to relax, somewhat. The Covies still launched direct assaults on Platform D, but the mass driver was able to discourage them from sending too much our way. Regardless, though, the mass driver wasn't able to take out _all_ the incoming phantoms, and so we still got our noses bloodied a few more times.

The last of our wounded—not just Alpha Company's, but the entire battalion's—were evacuated to the docked cruiser by 1100 hours. It had taken nearly three hours to get them all out pelican load by pelican load; our birds were taking heat from Covie fliers every time they came out here.

By the time the last of the seriously wounded was airborne, we got word that Yellow Line had fallen, overrun by a massive Covenant assault led by Hunters. Those men had fallen back to bolster Blue Line, which was now the only thing standing between the Covenant and us. The wounded from Yellow Line were already starting to trickle in, and they didn't look pretty.

As the sun sank lower into the west, and afternoon began its slow creep towards evening, all Hell broke loose; we completely lost contact with Blue Line.

Delta Company had been pretty much entirely evacuated, and we were starting to get Alpha Company personnel out, but while the pelicans continued their fly-ins, we found ourselves having to hold the corridors against direct Covenant assaults.

Alpha took up a position on this side of the second smelting room, which was just outside of the corridor leading out to Platform D. It was easier to defend than a bare corridor, but we wouldn't be able to hold out much longer.

"How could they have bulled through Blue Line so fast?" Staff Sergeant Geoffries grunted as he unloaded on an Elite trying to edge its way through the far doorway of the smelting room.

"Let's be honest with ourselves; Blue Line was pretty much an afterthought! Nothing more!" Dempsey shot back, ejecting an empty mag and slotting a fresh one in.

"_Staff Sergeant Geoffries!_" the booming tones of Sergeant Major Macintyre cut through the din of the heavy weaponsfire. "Pull your platoon back to the platform for extraction!"

"Yessir!" Geoffries hollered back in reply. "_1__st __Platoon, on me!_"

The twenty-odd men and women left in Geoffries's platoon were rounded up by their squad leaders. They quickly fell back into the corridor, jogging back towards the platform.

The marine next to me went down, a needler spike burning in his shoulder. The language that bubbled forth from his throat could have flayed the skin from a man's back if that was its intent.

"Yoder's down!" another marine shouted.

Miguél Esposito got one of the men in his squad to pick up Yoder and carry the foul-mouthed man away.

A zealot strode into the smelting area, energy sword blazing. The beleaguered Covies rallied behind the field master and started pressing us even harder. 3rd Platoon had fallen back before Geoffries's men, leaving only Dempsey's platoon. There were too many Covies charging us, and we were defending too large of a position. Dempsey gave the order to fall back into the corridor.

I could hear thunderous explosions coming from deeper in the facility. It sounded like a stampede of Hunters was headed this way, and I really didn't want to be on Platform D when they arrived.

Dempsey was the last one to fall back into the corridor, leaving our old position completely unmanned. A hail of needler shards thucked into the wall right next to him as he stepped away from the entrance to the corridor.

I took a quick glance up and down the corridor, and I didn't like what I saw. There wasn't any real cover to hunker down behind, and without cover we were all toast.

"We can't stay in this corridor," I said to Dempsey. "Covies'll tear us apart if we do."

My oldest friend gave an agreeing grunt. "Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Esposito, Natchez; get your squads into defensive positions around the entrance to Platform D. Anything gets by us before the next wave of pelicans arrive, then the only place we'll be getting extracted to is the Afterlife. Let's move!"

Dempsey's two subordinate squad leaders—normally his platoon had four, but the recent casualties had dwindled his numbers enough to lump everyone into two normal-sized squads—quickly followed their Staff Sergeant's orders and got the marines set up in good defensive positions outside the entrance to Platform D. We would be able to keep the Covies bottled up in this corridor for maybe ten or fifteen minutes, depending on our luck. That should buy us enough time to get out of this shithole.

I could have left with the other platoons and gotten the hell out of here, but I wasn't going anywhere without Devereux or Dempsey. Especially Devereux; I still had a bone to pick with her about those three years of no contact.

As Dempsey and I stopped on either side of the door leading outside to catch our breath, the sound of the mass driver firing made a somewhat unpleasant thought occur to my oldest friend, which he wasted no time in vocalizing to me.

"Hey, uh…you know how that mass driver is the only thing keeping our cruiser alive, right now?" Dempsey asked me. It was true; I think that mass driver is the main reason why Covie corvettes or cruisers haven't already been sent in to fry this whole damn place. And if the _Pillar of Autumn_ tried to take off without it…well, she wouldn't get very far.

"Yeah, why?" I arched an eyebrow, not having the time to wonder what Dempsey was driving at.

"That gun needs someone to operate it, and the _Autumn_ can't launch without it…so who's gonna man it when we all get extracted?"

I hadn't really thought that far ahead, and I felt like a huge dumbass because of it. Dempsey's question hit me in the gut harder than a sucker-punch as I realized what it entailed. "Someone's going to have to stay behind," I murmured.

Dempsey said nothing in reply. He didn't have to.

We were interrupted, anyway, unable to finish that thought. The sounds of fighting in the smelting area had suddenly increased in volume, as if it was happening right outside the door. I heard gunfire and voices…_human_ voices…

There was another loud explosion, and the lifeless body of the gold-armored zealot flew through the doorway and slammed into the wall, actually denting it.

Dempsey swore, and we hurried outside through the doorway, taking up positions on both sides of the entrance, cautiously aiming our rifles around the corners and down the corridor.

The smelting area had fallen eerily silent. Someone—_something_—stepped through the entrance to the smelting area and into the corridor. Well over six feet tall, armored like M1-Delta Dragons…_Spartans_.

I sucked in a breath between my teeth as I watched the two armored supersoldiers make their way down the corridor towards us. I hadn't seen a Spartan since Verus III…but they were just as I remembered.

The larger Spartan wore silver and red armor, along with some sort of smooth, curved, dome-like helmet with a skull scratched onto the faceplate. This gave the illusion that the Spartan was always grinning evilly, though he was probably doing the exact opposite. He wielded a shotgun and had what looked like a belt of grenades clasped around his waist. A large kukri knife jutted up over his shoulder. This was a guy I would never want to pick a fight with.

Skullface's partner was smaller in stature. He was thinner, shorter, and lither; built almost like a runner. The way he walked, as well as his jet-black armor, made me think of a moving shadow. This visage was broken, however, by an AI transportation unit on his back that was glowing a shade of bright blue. The Friend/Foe tag identified him as a naval Lieutenant, which would technically put him in command, here, since Captain Litovski had been forced to leave with Delta Company.

The marines all lowered their weapons, murmuring and whispering amongst themselves. Spartans had always been the stuff of legend. Soldiers who had never seen one with their own eyes would often think that they were mythical, or at the very least not as duked up as others make them out to be.

But when they _do_ see them… I still remember the chills I had gotten up my spine when those Spartans had shown up during the Siege of Cedar Rapids. They were back.

"What's the situation?" Skullface asked as he walked outside, the black-armored Spartan Lieutenant hot on his heels. He had a low, husky voice that sounded distinctly African-American.

When no one immediately answered, Dempsey took up the slack. "We rigged the mass driver up top. We lose that, the _Autumn_ will have no covering fire. She'll never make orbit."

Skullface didn't immediately answer. Instead, he raised Captain Keyes—the commander of the _Pillar of Autumn_ who had been coordinating our evacuation with Captain Litovski. "Noble to Keyes: we're at the pad," he said.

"_Copy that, Noble. My pelican's ready. Clear an LZ and I'll meet you there,_" Captain Keyes's response was.

As if the Covies had been listening—and hell, maybe they _were_—a pair of phantoms arrived, slipping right past the mass driver. Covenant troops began spilling out the sides of those dropships. I let out a stream of quiet profanity when I saw that it was Brutes, not Elites, that were leading the sudden attack.

"Move it, ya bastards!" Sergeant Major Macintyre roared. "Those flyboys're dependin' on us!"

While Skullface jogged off towards the ramps leading up to the mass driver, the rest of us streamed down towards the landing pad, taking up positions behind the cover provided by the crates, the walls, and the ramps. I climbed up to the roof of the storage/control building along with Esposito's squad. I was in a 'hold the high-ground' mood, right now.

The Spartan Lieutenant moved off with Dempsey, taking up a position alongside the other squad. He hadn't spoken a word, yet.

To my pleasant surprise, I found a sniper rifle leaning against the wall of the indoors portion of the roof. There were only twelve rounds of ammunition loaded in it...but twelve dead Brutes could go a long way, if I placed my shots well enough.

While Esposito's riflemen deployed around the edge of the rooftop, I knelt down by one of the windows, resting the barrel of the sniper rifle on the windowsill. A clump of five Brutes was advancing up along the rocky shelf below the landing pad, no doubt intending to flank our position. There were, after all, two ways to get onto this rooftop, and those Brutes were getting close to the other one.

The Covies began to open fire. Marines answered in a similar fashion.

I centered my crosshairs on one of the advancing Brutes, my mouth curving into a cold smile. "Sorry, friend..." I murmured to my target, tightening my finger around the trigger.

"What, Gunny?" the marine next to me asked.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," I squeezed the trigger.


	63. IV Chapter 63: Exodus

Chapter Sixty-Three: Exodus

**August 30, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Reach, Epsilon Eridani System**

I adjusted my aim and fired a second time, taking out another Brute. The apes seemed to be fond of this one particular spot behind a cluster of boulders. That spot provided good cover for them, as well as adequate space to fire upon our positions without being too exposed.

That spot was, however, exposed to one fatal angle; _mine_. The window I was shooting out of was situated just far enough over to expose anything that decided to crouch behind those rocks. After taking out a third Brute, the Covies started to get wise, peppering my window with plasmafire.

I ducked as the window frame began to disintegrate under the punishment it was taking. The marine next to me swore as a fragment of glass sliced across his shoulder.

"Buzzards coming up the stairs!" another man cried out in warning.

That wasn't surprising; we had been holding down this rooftop too well for things to go on that way. A wrench had to be thrown into the gears.

I laid the sniper rifle down and picked my MA5B back up. The ammo count on the rifle read fifty-five—almost a full magazine. No need to reload anytime soon. I don't know what I'd do without that sixty-round mag…

The marine with the shotgun who was guarding the stairs fired a shell into the first of the four jackals that were ascending the flight of stairs. The jackal caught the shot on its arm-shield, which winked out. A second shell blew a hole through its chest.

I sprayed one of the other jackals with my assault rifle, but the rounds pretty much bounced right off the arm-shield; they weren't as powerful as shotgun shells. The shotgunner took out that second jackal, but had to reload. There were still two more buzzards coming up at us, and the shotgunner wouldn't have enough time to prep, so I stepped in. Or rather, I stepped _down_.

It brought the butt of my MA5B smashing into the arm-shield of a third jackal. The buzzard gave a pained screech as its arm was fractured. It staggered back a step, but it wasn't deterred. Unfortunately for the jackal, it had lowered its shield too far. I put a burst into its skull, taking its head clean off.

The fourth jackal fired its plasma pistol, catching me in the side. White-hot pain coursed through my lower-right torso. It hadn't been an overcharge—I would be in a coma right now if that shot had been overcharged. It was only a superficial wound, thanks to my armor, but that didn't make it hurt any less. Doc Patrikos would probably cave my teeth in if he learned that I went and got myself wounded again so soon after he fixed me up in New Alexandria.

Ignoring my side, I threw myself back up to the top of the stairs to avoid getting shot a second time. By then, the shotgunner was able to finish off that last jackal. "You alright, Gunny?" the marine asked, slotting the last couple of shells into his M90.

"I can still walk and shoot," I grunted, which translated to _okay_ in any soldier's book.

Even as I made my way back to my window, I could hear that damned hum of a phantom's engines. Another pair of the Covie dropships had slipped in while Skullface—the Spartan manning the mass driver, named for the grinning skull etched into his faceplate—was busy shooting at banshees further on out. More Brutes, jackals, and grunts were spilled out onto Platform D, adding their forces to those of the Covies already present.

I'll give the Brutes some form of credit—they tried their darnedest to take this rooftop away from us. Their tactics, though—or lack thereof—were what kept on getting them killed. Sometimes charging an enemy head-on will crush him and wipe out all resistance. But when that enemy had a lot of friends, as well as a well-fortified position on top of a roof, straight-up charging him would get you killed.

I felled my fourth and fifth Brute during their repeated attempts to charge us. They were lower-ranking Brutes; not spectacular kills, I suppose, but kills nonetheless.

We did our level best against this new wave of Covenant troops. I couldn't see how the other half of the platoon was faring, but I could still hear their shouts and gunfire, so they were still going strong.

At least we didn't have wraiths or revenants hatebanging us this time around—vehicles wouldn't be able to navigate the tiers, stairs, landing pads, and boulders that made up Platform D.

"What the hell's taking our ride so goddamn long?" Singh exclaimed. The Indian marine hunkered back down and plugged his ears with his fingers as the grenade he'd lobbed towards a Brute Major detonated, showering the rooftop with bits of gravel, debris, and purple-red blood.

"The Captain of that cruiser is personally coming to pick up whatever those Spartans have for him!" I shouted back, recalling what I had learned during Captain Litovski's briefing two or three days ago. "He's not going to land here while this place is crawling with Brutes!"

"Well, it's not like we're asking for him to land and hang around for a beer, you know!" Singh snapped. "Come in, land, get everyone loaded up, then fucking fly away! One minute, tops!"

"When you transfer to the Navy and get a ship of your own, keep that in mind!"

Yet another Brute tried to take up a position behind that one cluster of boulders. It must have been part of the second group, because nothing had tried shooting from that spot since I killed my first three Brutes there.

I centered my crosshairs on the hapless Brute Captain and fired, chalking up my tally to six Brutes. Seven and Eight came directly afterwards as they started to rage at the sudden death of their superior.

Raging Brutes always got my personal attention; they could cause an infinite amount of damage if they got within arm's reach of anyone. It usually took a full clip of ammunition to take them down…but sniper rifle rounds did the job a lot more efficiently. Luckily, the Brutes were charging in a straight line _towards_ me, which made it easier to aim at them—had they been running across my line of fire, I probably would have missed.

I aimed at the Brute who was about to become Number Nine, but it toppled over and lay motionless before I got a chance to fire. The black-armored Spartan Lieutenant sprinted out from behind a rock and yanked his combat knife from the dead Brute's neck.

"_Showoff_…" I grumbled, adjusting my aim again to look for a new Number Nine.

Lieutenant Mulligan was killed about two minutes later. I didn't see it happen, but there was a loud explosion over on the other side of Platform D, where Dempsey's half of the platoon was fighting from. Suddenly, the COM was filled with marines shouting that the El-Tee was down.

Sergeant Major Macintyre nearly got blown up another minute later. A plasma grenade stuck to the edge of the rooftop where he was standing. The marines on either side of him were able to get out of range safely, but Macintyre wasn't quite fast enough. He was able to evade the deadly effects of the explosion, but the concussion was enough to knock him out cold.

"Hey, _hombre_, I think that puts you in charge," Esposito hollered over to me as he pulled Macintyre into the sheltered section of our rooftop. The Sergeant Major was fine, but he wouldn't be regaining consciousness anytime soon.

"One of those Spartans is a Lieutenant, Miguél," I reminded my old comrade in arms. "_He's_ in charge. Not that it really matters; what good orders are there to give other than _don't die?_"

"Okay, good point," Esposito shrugged. He started to say something else, but was interrupted by the hum of another phantom's engines. A shadow fell over our rooftop. The marines started shouting and running like hell off the rooftop.

"_Hijo de puta!_ They're droppin' in right on our heads!" Esposito swore.

Even as he spoke, I saw the underbelly of the phantom come into sight outside the doorway. A group of Brutes landed outside on the rooftop, led by a chieftain wielding a gravity hammer.

The chieftain pulped one of the unluckily stragglers who was too slow in fleeing the rooftop. The blow knocked another two men off the roof as well. A fourth marine was gutted by one of the lesser Brutes' bayonets. Everyone else in the Brutes' paths managed to get away, though.

Not that it would matter—there were only more Covie troops waiting for us on the ground. Now that we had been driven off our rooftop, there was nowhere for us to go.

I stood up and leveled my sniper rifle at the doorway. The first Brute to try and walk inside became Number Nine. I aimed at a likely candidate to fill the Numer Ten slot, but my rifle clicked empty. I had to reload.

No time.

I discarded the sniper rifle and picked up my MA5B, opening fire on the Brute Captain who stepped over its dead brother's corpse and entered our little room.

It didn't get very far. There was the loud _**bang**_ of a shotgun firing, and the Brute's shields winked out. A second shot blew a hole out through its stomach, spraying Esposito, Singh, and me with blood and bits of unmentionables.

The black-armored Spartan turned away and went to work. It was a sight to behold…the supersoldier flitted from one Brute to the next, weaving in and out from around them, almost everywhere at once.

One by one, the Brutes fell, unable to match the Spartan's speed and finesse. Killing seemed to be like an art for the supersoldier—there were no messy blows, no botched strikes, no missed shots…

Finally, the black-armored Lieutenant grabbed the Brute chieftain's arms and drove his knee into the Covie's stomach, causing it to double over and falter momentarily. The Spartan pressed the momentary lapse by ripping the Brute's hammer from its loosened grasp, inverting it, and bringing it crushing down on its former owner.

The chieftain died instantly in the blast, its body catapulted high into the air where it executed several complete somersaults, its limbs flapping around limply.

The COM crackled back to life again. "_This is Keyes, on hot approach to Platform Delta,_" the familiar voice of the naval captain informed us.

"Our rides are here!" I bellowed. "Everyone pack up and move!"

I led the way down the flight of stairs, Esposito, Singh, and the rest of the squad hot on my heels. Singh carried Macintyre over his shoulder, and I picked up that sniper rifle on my way out, slinging it over my back. There were still a couple Brutes and grunts scattered around the platform, but we brushed right past them, keeping them suppressed with quick bursts so that they wouldn't bite us in the ass as we passed by.

Two pelicans were waiting by the landing pad. A third was down on the ground, as well—Dempsey was in the process of loading up the majority of his platoon onto that bird. All of Geoffries's men and several of Esposito's climbed aboard, and the pelican pulled away, soaring up towards the docked _Pillar of Autumn_.

I climbed the steps leading up to the landing pad. An older man dressed in a light gray naval officer's uniform stepped off the pelican waiting on the pad. The four stripes on his shoulder straps identified him as a naval captain, which would have to make him Captain Keyes. I took up a position on the side of the landing pad, taking aim at the corridor entrances where Covies had been trickling in earlier. I didn't want anything to get me, not while I was _this_ close to getting the hell out of here.

The black-armored Spartan Lieutenant met with the Captain. They exchanged a few words with each other and the Lieutenant handed over the glowing blue AI transportation unit on his back. Keyes handled the thing like it was a nuclear core—whatever AI was tucked away in there, it had to be pretty damn important.

Then things started going south, _again_. A faint rumbling noise drew closer from off to our right. I took my eyes off the corridor entrances and looked in the direction of the sound. Like the Gates of Hell creaking open, the smoky smog hanging in the sky was parted by a Covenant battlecruiser, which was heading right for us. I think we were all about to find out just how much that mass driver was capable of.

Keyes touched a finger to his ear and spoke into his throat mic. "Cruiser, adjusting heading for the Autumn!" he said to the Spartan manning the mass driver. "Noble Four, I need fire on that cruiser or we're not getting out of here! Do you copy?"

"_You'll have your window, sir,_" Skullface responded.

My brow furrowed in a frown. I had already known that someone was going to have to stay behind, but I hadn't expected it to be one of the Spartans. The man knew he was going to die, but he sounded so…casual. Calm. Indifferent, almost. I've stared Death in the face more than my fair share of times over the years, but it's never been by choice.

I've never chosen to get beaten or shot up to the brink of death. I've never _chosen_ to fight in some of the bloodiest battles the UNSC has ever participated in since Harvest. Every time I've come close to death, it's been because of shit that's outside of my control.

And here was this Spartan…willingly staying behind to man the mass driver so that we could escape, _knowing_ that there's no way out for him.

How does a guy do that without a second thought? How does a guy face his own death without so much as a blink and a shrug? How?

The answer was simple: Spartans were not human. Biologically, genetically, they were Homo sapiens…but mentally? Emotionally? They're robots. Suits of power armor with a flesh-and-blood filling. But I'm the last one who would complain about this; Spartans were good at what they did, and that was because of the way they were.

Some tragedies are necessary. The Spartans' lack of humanity is one such tragedy. I suppose my stolen life could be another, but that's a whole 'nother can of worms. For now, all that mattered was getting off Reach.

Captain Keyes contacted the _Pillar of Autumn's_ bridge and informed them that he had the package and was returning to the ship. He turned on his heel as he said this, stepping back into the waiting pelican. Dempsey tapped the shoulders of the two marines holding position at the front of the landing pad. They both fell back into the pelican, followed by the rest of their comrades.

I stepped into the pelican last. The Spartan Lieutenant was right behind me, but before he could climb in, the pelican jerked away from the landing pad, suddenly.

I heard the dreaded _whump whump_ of a plasma cannon firing its ordinance, followed by the screech of twisting metal howling its final protest before being turned into a pile of scrap. The pilot of our bird took us into a shallow dive, putting some distance between us and the platform. The burning wreck of the second pelican that was escorting this one fell past, slamming into the landing pad before plunging over the edge of the cliff.

A phantom dropship glided past, headed right for the mass driver. We watched helplessly as a team of Elites was dropped right on top of the cannon. I saw Skullface personally kill the first Elite that tried to take him, only to get impaled from behind by the dead Elite's partner. Amazingly, the Spartan was able to unsheathe his kukri knife and thrust it into the second Elite's neck.

Not that it mattered; the damage was done. We would have to make it back without anyone manning that mass driver. These obstacles just kept piling themselves on, today…

The pilot maneuvered us back into position, bringing us over to the landing pad. The black-armored Spartan still stood there, rock-solid even after watching the death of his comrade.

I gripped the edge of the pelican's rear opening and leaned forward. "Lieutenant! Get aboard! We gotta get the hell outta here!" I shouted to the Spartan, holding out a hand to him.

The Lieutenant didn't take it. Instead, he took a step back. "Negative. I have the gun," he said, turning away from the pelican and walking towards the steps leading down to the rest of Platform D. "Good luck, sir."

"Good luck to you, Spartan," Captain Keyes sighed, turning around and making his way through us as he headed up towards the cockpit.

"What's he doing? Is he out of his fuckin' mind?" Dempsey pushed his way up to the back of the troop bay, standing alongside me as I watched Platform D and the lone wolf still on it grow smaller and smaller.

My earlier thoughts concerning the Spartans lack of nearly all that makes us human resurfaced, and a sad grin tugged at the corner of my mouth. "No, Demp," I said to my oldest friend. "He isn't."

As the highest-ranking marine present, I joined Keyes in the cockpit with the pilot. Surprisingly enough, I actually recognized the flyboy as none other than Lieutenant François Rousseau; the pilot who had pulled me and Doc Patrikos out of New Alexandria. I was surprised I still remembered him.

That cruiser was getting awfully big in the cockpit windows. I stood behind the vacant copilot's station while Keyes leaned over Rousseau with a white-knuckled grip on the pilot's chair.

As we neared the _Pillar of Autumn,_ so did the Covenant cruiser. If their ship reached our ship, it was all over.

The Covenant battlecruiser's ventral energy projector began to glow as it warmed up, getting ready to reduce the _Pillar of Autumn_ to molten slag. The purplish-blue glow brightened to a lavender hue, then to a bright cyan. It continued to grow brighter and brighter, until it became painful to look at.

"Fire! Now, Lieutenant!" Keyes ordered over the COM. "Hit her in the gut!"

The mass driver wouldn't be able to crack the battlecruiser's shields, but it _would_ be able to do the next-best thing… But the timing had to be right. Too early, and the battlecruiser would change course; too late, and we'd get fried, anyway. But now, the time had come.

The mass driver fired one last time. The shot hit the Covenant battle-cruiser's energy projector, completely demolishing the whole weapon. This destabilized whatever was keeping all that built-up plasma in check, resulting in a massive explosion that rocked the entire Covie ship. The battlecruiser wasn't completely destroyed, but it wouldn't be charging to glass certain UNSC Halcyon-class cruisers anytime soon. It was down for the count. Now, the _Pillar of Autumn_ was free to leave Reach.

A deep rumbling could already be heard as the _Autumn_ fired up her engines, getting ready for takeoff.

"Good guns, Spartan," Keyes spoke into the COM one last time. "All stations: brace for cast-off."

I turned away from the window and headed back into the troop bay, standing alongside Dempsey and Devereux as Lieutenant Rousseau guided our pelican into one of the _Autumn's_ hangar bays. We glided over the floor for a short distance before coming to a stop towards the middle of the bay.

People were running this way and that, marines and naval personnel alike. We had made it just in time; there was a large jolt as the _Pillar of Autumn_ was released from the drydock. The ground, still visible outside the open hangar bay doors, quickly fell away and morphed into the hazy yellow sky. After we broke through the clouds, the hangar doors were closed, cutting us off from the outside world.

"You boys did a fine job down there," Captain Keyes said to us as he disembarked. "This is more valuable to our cause than you could possibly imagine, and it would have probably been destroyed had it not been for all of you. You have my gratitude."

We all traded salutes with the Captain. The gray-haired skipper then departed for good, no doubt heading for the bridge.

As we left the pelican and headed towards the nearest lift, I took a deep breath—one of the first deep breaths I had taken in a long time. We were _off_ Reach…I have no idea where the fuck we're going, but we still got _off_ Reach…

I'll be honest with myself; I had never expected to make it off Reach. I knew that I was gonna do my best to reach that goal, obviously, but I never thought I would actually _do_ it. I've evaded death so many times already that I get more and more surprised every time when the Reaper decides not to cash in my soul just yet.

I flashed Devereux a weary grin. "We made it, Soph. We _made_ it."

Sophie Devereux wasn't sharing in the good spirits, though. "_Oui, certainement_. But what have we made it to? If the Covenant could completely trash Reach like they just did…what's stopping them from doing the same to the other inner colonies? To Earth? I don't even need to ask; we all know the answer…"

We arrived at a lift and clambered inside. I held up a hand as the doors closed, quelling Devereux before she could continue. "We'll deal with that problem when it arises. For now, though…just one step at a time. One step at a time…"

* * *

**END OF SECTION IV**


	64. V Chapter 64: Out of the Frying Pan

**Section V: Halo**

* * *

Chapter Sixty-Four: Out of the Frying Pan

**September 18, 2552 (Military Calendar, approximated) \  
Unknown Location, Slipspace**

I was surrounded by flames. It was nighttime, but the flames provided more than enough light. No matter which direction I looked, all I saw was more fire and the darkness beyond.

Something hit me in the side, and I felt a wave of agony course through my body. That had been a plasma shot, and it had gotten me under the arm. I was spun around and thrown to the ground.

I let out a howl of pain as my wound hit the ground. I tried to get back up, but an armored boot was planted on my chest, forcing me back down.

The familiar three-mandibled Elite Major standing over me drew its energy sword. "_Hello, Alley,_" it hissed, raising its sword to deliver a finishing blow. I tried to get out from under its boot, but the Major wasn't going anywhere.

Then suddenly, right before my eyes, the red-armored Elite morphed into the black-armored Spartan Lieutenant who had saved our asses back on Reach. "_You owe us a thank-you!_" the Spartan roared.

The energy blade plunged down.

I woke with a start and in a cold sweat, banging my head on a hard surface. A stream of foul-smelling, bluish-gray fluid—the substance fed into our lungs during cryo to keep them from freezing up—came up my trachea and out my mouth as I tried to sit up. With that unpleasant part of getting warmed up out of the way, I opened my eyes.

I was in a cryo pod. There was a soft blue light illuminating the interior of my fridge. The small window in front of my face was frosted up, so I wasn't able to see anything outside. It was just me and my thoughts in here.

The details of my dream were already fading. I could only remember bits and pieces, but those bits and pieces were pretty unsettling. "_Fuck_…" I muttered, wiping off my forehead and taking another deep breath.

I hadn't really gotten time to think about everything that had happened since Aszod. Things had been happening so fast that, before I knew it, I was locked up in a cryo-tube and gone from this world.

I've always said that Fate has an odd sense of humor. This was just another example. Years ago, on Verus III, my life had been spared by an Elite Major. It had been difficult at first, knowing that every moment you were alive from there on out was thanks to a goddamn Covie.

The only reason I was thinking and breathing right now was thanks to a Spartan. Me. An ODST, owing his life to an Elite and a Spartan. How could the universe get anymore screwed up?

Suddenly, those old Helljumper feelings of prejudice and resentment I've always had towards the Spartans tasted very bitter and ashen.

Unlike many of my colleagues, I've never voiced my resentment of Spartans. But, I'm ashamed to say, it's always been there. Over a decade of being considered second-best had given birth to it, no matter how much I've forced myself to keep an open mind.

But now…those very same 'ONI freaks' had saved my life. Again. Perhaps it could be high time for a change of heart. It was impossible to change a person's mind on the dime, but I was willing to _try_. I don't think I could ever accept them as human beings—they were too robotic and emotionless for that—but I _would_ be able to accept them for who they were. Soldiers fighting for humanity. I think we Hellumpers have good cause to resent the Spartans…but now I see that we have even better cause to accept them. Last time I checked, we _were_ fighting for the same thing.

But enough pondering. I was awake right now, which meant someone had decided to thaw me out, which in _turn_ meant that we were nearing our destination. Part of me hoped it was Earth we were arriving at, but I knew that that wouldn't be the case. The Cole Protocol would prevent us from executing a slipspace jump to the Sol System. Which begged the question: where the hell were we? One of the other inner colonies? Sigma Octanus IV, maybe?

All would be answered in due time. For now, I decided to focus on getting something to eat.

"Hey, assholes! Don't thaw me and leave me waiting in here!" I yelled, banging on the window with one of my fists. If you go into cryo, you have to go in naked to avoid getting some kind of freezer burn. I was stuck in this refrigerator-tube with nothing but my skin and hair for warmth; I wanted out.

There was a mechanical hiss as the front of my cryo pod was lifted up, exposing me to the outside world. I took a shaky step down onto the cold metal floor. "Easy, Gunny," a passing technician said. "You'll pass out if you take things too fast."

I gave a quiet sigh. "Thank you, son. I was about to start running a fucking marathon." The guy looked like he was in his twenties—I've done cryo a fuck of a lot more than him without any trouble. Sure, waking up always sucked ass, but I've never had any serious problems with it.

Other marines were being unfrozen from their pods, as well. Dempsey and Devereux had to be around, somewhere, but I couldn't find them. I made my way into the locker rooms and found my compartment. Inside were my fatigues, underwear, and dogtags, which I quickly slipped into. Once I was decent, I pushed through the crowd of dressing marines and walked out into the corridor.

The layout of the _Pillar of Autumn_ wasn't so different from other cruisers that I had been attached to in the past. It wasn't the same—Halcyon-class cruisers were older and a little less efficient than the newer Marathon-class vessels, but the basic layout was similar.

I loaded up on eggs, bacon, and sausage when I got to the mess hall. I didn't recognize anyone I immediately saw, so I sat down at one of the tables in the section with the cushioned seats. There weren't very many tables with those seats on ships like these, and as such they were highly contested. It was like some sort of cafeteria hierarchy. But I was a Gunnery Sergeant; I don't think many people would go against the stripes.

I was wrong.

"You're in my seat, old man," someone gave my shoulder a push from behind, interrupting my latest mouthful of eggs. My eyebrows shot up my forehead in surprise; I can't remember the last time anyone had taken that tone with me.

"I don't see your name on it, friend," I replied, turning around to face a group of four muscular men in Helljumper fatigues. They weren't young pups, but they weren't exactly middle-aged. I'd put them in their mid-thirties. Were they going to seriously start a fight over a goddamn table?

The lead ODST gave a deep laugh at my reply. "This section is Helljumpers only, _pal_. Don't make me ask twice."

"Funny. Last time I checked, a Gunnery Sergeant outranks a Corporal," I said to the ODST, whose patience was beginning to wear thin.

"Funny; last time I checked, I don't take shit from fucking regulars," the ODST corporal's smile faded and vanished completely as he dropped all pretense of civility. "This section is Helljumpers only, and you're not a goddamn Helljump-"

I was out of my seat and sending my fist crashing into the loudmouthed little shit's face before he could even finish his sentence. The ODST Corporal staggered back, spitting out a globule of blood from his mouth while rubbing his sore jaw.

He balled his hands into fists and swung at me, but I had been expecting that. I ducked his first blow, sidestepped his reflexive secondary blow, and caught him in the solar plexus with my elbow. He doubled over, gasping for air after getting the wind knocked out of him. I knocked him over with a quick shove to both shoulders and planted a boot over his neck while he was down.

I didn't strike again. Instead, I grabbed my right sleeve and pulled it up to my shoulder, exposing the flaming skull tattoo that was inked into my biceps. It was the Helljumper symbol; every ODST received it upon surviving Helljumper training in the Ural Mountains, back on Earth.

The downed corporal's buddies cast uncertain glances at each other, but they decided not to get into a brawl with me. They would have won if they tried, but they didn't. And besides; now that they knew I was a Helljumper, too, they had no reason to take this fine table away from me. Whoever said violence solves nothing?

The corporal picked himself back up and stepped back. There was something different about the way he looked at me, now. Was it respect? Could it be because it turned out that I was one of his kind after all, or was it because I had just beaten the tar out of him? Either likelihoods were…well…_likely_.

"See you around, Gunny," the Corporal muttered, brushing past me.

Helljumpers were very proud individuals, and we rarely mixed with the regulars…but most of us were simply aloof, not in-your-face. It was assholes like that corporal who gave us a bad name.

Of course, fights didn't just go unnoticed. It wasn't long before the higher-ups found out. I went to the armory when I finished my breakfast and picked up my weapons—my M6D sidearm and my MA5B. Though it wasn't normal for soldiers go tote their weapons around a ship, everyone seemed to be doing it, now…as if they were expecting a fight here in these halls. And the officers—naval and jarhead alike—didn't seem to mind, either.

And so, though it felt odd walking through the corridors of the _Pillar of Autumn_ with an assault rifle on my back, I fit right in.

I was eventually intercepted in the hallway by a pair of ODSTs who asked me to come with them. And I sensed that, even though they were asking, they really wouldn't take no for an answer, so I went with them. I was led up a few decks and into a briefing room of some sort.

A tall, middle-aged man with brown hair cut to a military buzz and eyes of a matching color was speaking with a lieutenant. He was clearly an officer; I could see the gold oakleaf of a Major on his shoulders and helmet. But even if I hadn't seen the insignia, I could sense a certain charisma almost radiating from him…he was a man who was used to being in command.

When he saw me enter the room, he dismissed the lieutenant, who snapped him a salute before turning on her heel and walking out. He then dismissed the two Helljumpers who had escorted me up here. "We will likely encounter the Covenant again when we drop out of Slipspace," the Major said to me, not even bothering with a greeting. "Because of this, I cannot confine you to quarters for your little demonstration in the mess hall."

I didn't even bother to ask how he had found out about my scuffle with the ODST corporal. There had been a lot of witnesses, and that kind of news wouldn't take long to travel up the chain of command before reaching someone who decided to act on it. This man appeared to be that _someone_.

"But you're not here to get a slap on the wrist, either. If I wanted you punished, I would have one of my subordinates carry it out," the Major continued. "I'm Antonio Silva, commanding officer of the _Autumn's_ detachment of Helljumpers. I know each and every soul under my command, but I do not know you, which means you are not part of my unit. Consider this my way of asking: _who the hell are you?_"

I gave Major Silva my name, rank, and unit—I figured that now, of all times, it really wouldn't matter if I told someone what outfit I had fought in.

Antonio Silva frowned, a gleam of familiarity in his eyes. I could tell that he had heard of my unit, before. "You belong to ONI, then? Black Ops?"

"Well, sir, I _did_…" I murmured. "Not quite sure who I belong to, now…"

"You belong to _me,_ now," a light smile danced around Silva's mouth, but his eyes retained their serious, penetrating gaze. "And you aren't the only one. Are you familiar with a Private First Class Patrick O'Shea, or a Corporal Lucullus Jackson?"

The names sent a jolt through my spine.

_Celt_. _Pyro_.

"They were part of my squad," I could barely contain my relief at hearing _something _about my absent squadmates. "Are they here? Are there anymore Black Ops personnel with them?"

"Yes, they are onboard," Major Silva nodded. "They should be in our barracks on Deck Sixteen. But they were the only other Helljumpers to join the complement here. All the other stragglers are marine regulars, including the men and women you came aboard with."

"Yes, sir."

"Alright, Garris, you're dismissed," Major Silva sketched a salute and waved me off. "Oh, and report down to the armory again and talk to Hines, one of the quartermasters down there. He'll fix you up with proper Helljumper armor. Now, get."

"Sir," I returned the salute and exited the briefing room. I followed Silva's directive and returned to the armory, seeking out Hines. Sure enough, the quartermaster led me to a backroom and pulled out the pieces to a full set of ODST armor, which I quickly slipped into.

It felt good to be back in my skin. The marine battle armor I had worn before hadn't been bad, but I had grown accustomed to the Helljumper armor. Having it back felt…_right_. In a universe filled with chaos, one small part of it had been restored to order.

If the Covies came roaring around the next corner right this second, I would be as ready as I could be to fight them. With that in mind, I was able to finally run a little personal errand.

I took the nearest lift down to Deck Sixteen and made my way through the corridors until I reached the _Autumn's_ complement of Helljumpers' barracks area. The first two sets of quarters I went through were no-shows, but when I checked the third barracks…

"Hello, Pyro," I grinned as I saw my squadmate's unmistakable form lying on a nearby bunk.

Pyro bolted upright, banging his head on the bunk above him. Though he was sleeping in full armor, he wasn't wearing his helmet, so the blow to the head didn't hurt any less. The burly ODST swore under his breath as he swung his legs over the edge of his bunk, but his old surprise quickly returned when he saw me with his own eyes.

"_Scar!_" Pyro pulled me into another one of his crushing bear-hugs. "Fuckin' A, man! Where the hell have you been?"

Celt, who had been sound asleep in the bunk above Pyro's, woke with a start and greeted me with a similarly profane exclamation.

I briefly recounted how I had woken up from my wounds in New Alexandria, as well as my subsequent fight to escape from the Aszod ship-breaking yards with the remnants of the 9th Force Recon. By the time I was finished, both of my squadmates looked somewhat impressed.

"You met Spartans, you said?" Pyro asked.

"They're the only reason I'm talking to you right now," I told the burly Helljumper.

Pyro grunted, though he didn't sound all that convinced. I decided not to press the issue; he would have to sort out his prejudices on his own.

"What about the rest of the squad?" I asked them next. "You can't be everyone, can you?"

Celt's expression darkened. "We all got separated when the Covenant smashed through our lines... The Master Sergeant, Cajun, and Apache...we ain't heard a peep from 'em since. I'd like to think they were able to make it onto the _Stalwart Dawn,_ but..." the Irishman shrugged helplessly. "What can ye do?"

"Not a fuckin' thing," Pyro grunted.

I frowned, noticing that my squadmates had forgotten someone. "And Virgin?" I asked hesitantly, not really wanting to hear the answer. But if I really hadn't wanted the answer, I wouldn't have asked.

"He took a plasma overcharge to the chest when the Covies broke through our lines," Pyro sighed, the loss still obvious in his voice. "Poor bastard died before we could get him medevaced. Maybe if it hadn't been so chaotic..."

It wasn't the first time I had grieved a fallen comrade. It _was_ the first time, though, that one of those comrades had been a member of my Helljumper squad. It had been bound to happen sometime, but..._Virgin?_ Our technical specialist? The youngest member of our team? No amount of rationality, logic, or reason would be able to make it feel any better.

I had always feared that not all of us would make it off Reach. The kind of fighting we had been participating in...it wasn't what Black Ops units were accustomed to. We weren't supposed to be fighting in the trenches. But Reach had been threatened, and so _everyone_ had been pulled to defend key areas...including Special Operations units. Virgin had paid the ultimate price for this. Cajun, Apache, and the Master Sergeant probably had, as well.

I was glad to have found at least two familiar faces, but I was still dissatisfied. Nevertheless, I forced myself to swallow my emotions; they would not help me fight better. I just wanted to rejoin a unit and get back into the thick of things. Battle was bloody, brutal, and cruel...but sometimes it served as a good distraction from yourself.

"So ye've met the good Major, then, eh?" Celt asked me after a few long minutes of silence.

"Yeah," I nodded. "He pointed me in your direction. Seems alright to me, as officers go."

Celt didn't seem to agree with me, but he gave a slight nod anyway. "Well, at least we're goin' ta be fightin' with other Helljumpers if we get jumped."

"How could we get jumped?" I arched an eyebrow. "We've been in Slipspace for a pretty long time."

"If there's one thing we've learned about the Covies over the years, it's that they aren't to be underestimated," Pyro muttered.

That was something else I had noticed during the few hours I had been up and about the _Pillar of Autumn_. We were all incredibly lucky individuals. Not only had we survived the shitstorm on Reach, but we had actually _escaped_. I'm sure there were a lot of poor schmucks who had survived everything only to get burned to ashes by the inevitable glassing that was sure to follow. Hell, now that I thought about it, we had escaped over two weeks ago. Reach was probably already a dead husk.

But everyone aboard the _Autumn_ seemed to feel like they were living off of borrowed time. I was no exception. From what I had gleaned, our ship was the only one to escape Reach that late in the battle. Everything else that had escaped had done so long before Aszod became the only remaining off-planet extraction point.

The Covenant had to have noticed us slipping off like that, and they no doubt would have sent a force to pursue us. I couldn't really see why we were all walking around with our weapons; the Covenant would fry the _Pillar of Autumn_ with plasma torpedoes before we would ever face them in combat. Even so, the weight of an MA5B in my hands felt more than a little comforting.

"Anyone using this bunk, here?" I nudged a bunk that was situated next to Celt and Pyros'.

Pyro shook his head. "All yours," the burly Helljumper said, sitting back down on his own bunk and lying down on his back.

I think it's amazing how I could still be able to sleep after spending nearly three weeks in cryo...but if there's one thing soldiers knew how to do well, it was to fall asleep whenever they had a free moment. When I fought in the trenches with the 9th Force Recon, I had been able to sleep for entire days on end during the rare lulls in battle.

Today was no exception. I had a lot to digest; escaping from Reach, learning of Virgin's death, worrying about the Covies that were no doubt behind us, wondering what our destination was... But all of that took a back burner to sleep. If I had been counting when I closed my eyes, I wouldn't have made it to _seven_.

I didn't dream of the horrible Spartan/Elite that I remembered from when I got out of cryo, at least. Instead, I dreamed that I was in a metal box. The box was gradually heating up, throwing me into a wild sweat. The box was shaking, too...it was chaos. Then an ear-splitting screech began to resonate throughout the inside of the box. I closed my ears, hummed, screamed—nothing would get that sound out of my head.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself back in the barracks. The oven-like metal box had just been a dream...but the shaking and the wailing alarm was very much real. I could hear distant explosions, followed by the ship shuddering beneath my bunk. It felt like an earthquake every time one of those explosions hit us. The general quarters alarm was blaring at full volume, reaching out to all of the distant nooks and crannies of the Halcyon-class cruiser.

I bolted upright out of my bunk, instantly jumping down to the ground and grabbing my MA5B. No sooner had I sprang to my feet did the doors to this particular barracks slid open and the familiar form of the Major strode in.

"The Covenant have decided to pay us a little visit!" Major Silva boomed as he walked amongst his rapidly-preparing men and women. "And _we've_ all just volunteered to be on the welcoming committee! Grab your gear and get down to the engineering sector; that's where the picnic is gonna be! _Move it!_"

We must have dropped out of slipspace while I was asleep. I didn't waste time wondering why we hadn't been woken up beforehand; wondering about the _why_ still wouldn't change the _what_.

"Trust the goddamn Covies to ruin a perfectly good nap," I grumbled after Silva left.


	65. V Chapter 65: Into the Fire

Chapter Sixty-Five: Into the Fire

**September 19, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
UNSC _Pillar of Autumn, _Unknown Location**

The barracks were all quickly filled with yells and shouts from sergeants and corporals as the squad and platoon leaders got their men moving. We all rumbled out of our living section and filed into the nearest lifts, taking them down towards Engineering.

"Why the fuck would the Covenant want to board us?" one of the younger Helljumpers asked as our lift neared its destination. "Why not just blow us into the next century with their little plasma torpedoes; they've had no problem doing that before-"

"Are you _complaining,_ trooper?" the younger Helljumper's sergeant growled. "You not grateful for the air you're still breathing right this second?"

"No, sergeant, sir," the young trooper replied. "But the Covies never do anything without a reason. They wouldn't board us unless they had something to gain from it."

"Or maybe somethin's preventin' them from shootin' at us," Celt guessed.

"Like what?" the young trooper asked.

"Feck me if I know!" Celt snapped. "Just shut up, will ye? Stop askin' so many pointless questions..."

The reactor of the _Pillar of Autumn_ was apparently a large leap forward when it came to nuclear fusion ship's engines. In fact, it had not one reactor, but _three;_ the main reactor was situated in the center with two smaller reactors around it. When used properly, they could boost the engines' power output by three-hundred percent. There were also many other state-of-the-art improvements made to the system which I would never understand, but the moral of the story is that it was a pretty sweet piece of technology.

It was not something we wanted to lose, so Captain Keyes had given _us_ the great honor of defending it from the Covenant boarders. My excitement knew no bounds.

We had little time to get situated. The reactor room was rather large, and the main access points were situated on both ends of the central catwalk which spanned the entire space. Luckily, someone had managed to lug in a heavy fifty from one of the armories, which we set up in the middle of the catwalk. Though it would certainly help, the heavy machinegun could only cover one of the entrances at a time.

We'd just have to make do. And one heavy fifty was better than none at all.

We split into platoons. There were two platoons on the catwalk, and the rest scattered to the other parts of the engine room. It was the largest room in the entire cruiser, being at least three decks high. There were several smaller entrances which the Covenant boarders could utilize to gain access to this place. If they were able to destroy the reactors, we would be royally fucked for the few seconds of life we'd have left before getting atomized.

The Covenant were able to take out the _Autumn's_ MAC cannon with an antimatter charge a few minutes later. With the MAC cannon down, we were completely helpless against the Covenant Navy.

There were more explosions that rocked the cruiser, and I could even begin to hear plasmafire coming from outside. Covenant boarding parties were now roaming the corridors, killing indiscriminately. There hadn't been very many marines or personnel down here when the alarms started wailing, which is probably why Keyes had sent us down here in the first place.

But any naval technicians or engineers who were unlucky enough to be in this section of the _Autumn_ were no doubt getting slaughtered right this second. But there shouldn't be too many; one of the AIs on board the _Autumn_, Cortana, had been ordering all nonessential personnel elsewhere.

Our guys up on the catwalk started opening fire about a minute and a half later when a trio of grunts chanced upon one of the main entrances to this chamber. They were shredded within seconds.

Unfortunately, their timely death alerted their comrades to a significant armed presence in this chamber: _us_. A few more grunts trickled in, but they met a similar fate.

When the first group of Elites attacked the catwalk, the heavy fifty started clattering. ODSTs started to fall as the plasma flew their way, but they held their position. More Elites and jackals started coming in through the smaller side entrances on the upper and lower decks. The platoon Celt, Pyro, and I were fighting with—which was being commanded by a lieutenant named Warner—saw action when Covies began bubbling out onto the top deck of the engine room. We had to cover one of the entrances and the stairwell next to it.

I had already had some time on Reach to get used to having an MA5B as my primary, but it still felt odd. I mean, I've used long-ranged weapons for the vast majority of my military service—almost twenty-eight years of fighting with a BR55 or an SRS99C. Suddenly switching to an assault rifle was quite a change.

Still…having a sixty-round magazine was something entirely new to me, and I have to say…I enjoyed it. These things could really pump a lot of lead through the air, and I mean a _lot_. And the feeling of an assault rifle as it went fully automatic on the Covie caught in its ironsights…it was exhilarating.

"So, ya know we're screwed, right?" Pyro grunted as he emptied a shell into the chest of an Elite whose shields another marine had managed to take down. "There's gotta be a whole damn fleet out there, and if all those ships've got freaks converging on us, they can jus' drown us all in their own blood. We got no place to go."

I frowned. That hadn't quite occurred to me, yet, but Pyro was right. We were in the middle of space, for all I knew. Unless there was a habitable planet conveniently waiting below for us to go to, we were stuck here. I had been so caught up in our orders that I really hadn't thought about our actual situation.

Then again, there really wasn't anything _to_ think about. We were the only thing standing between the Covies and the _Pillar of Autumn's_ reactors. We would hold to the end; falling back was not an option. And besides…where would we fall back to?

The Covenant didn't let up. We ended up having to move the bodies of the dead Covies to the side and stack them up like firewood so that they wouldn't block our fields of fire; it was remarkable how fast the doorways could clog up with the dead.

This cycle went on for about half an hour or so; maintain a line of fire, provide covering fire while others cleared the bodies and added them to the piles, return to original position, and repeat.

We settled into the routine. My movements had become rhythmic, robotic, cold, and detached. I wasn't really _aiming_ anymore; I was letting my body do the work. I was completely stumped for a full two seconds when I reloaded and took aim, only to find my line of fire empty. There weren't anymore Covies pouring in through the doors.

"Stairway clear!" a Staff Sergeant shouted—Lieutenant Warner had been killed early on in the fight by detonating needler shards., leaving command of the platoon to the subordinate senior NCO. Similar reports came from all other parts of the giant chamber that was the engine room.

The temporary lull in the gunfire was quickly broken by the deep, booming voice of Major Silva. The battalion commander strode out onto the main catwalk as he spoke. "_All right, listen up!_" he boomed. "Playtime's over! Captain Keyes is tired of our company and wants us to leave this tub! There's a construct down there, complete with an atmosphere, gravity, and the one thing Marines love like beer—and that's dirt beneath our feet!"

"Uh...what the fuck is he talking about?" Pyro's confused expression couldn't be seen through his opaque faceplate, but it was evident enough in his voice. At least he'd had the good sense to not speak too loudly.

"_Shh,_" Celt hissed.

Major Silva paused for a moment, sweeping his gaze over every one of us. I had to hand it to him; from what I've seen of him so far, the man knew how to give a speech. The Major went on. "Most of the crew—not to mention your fellow jarheads—will be leaving the ship in lifeboats. They'll ride to the surface in air-conditioned comfort, sipping wine, and nibbling on appetizers. Not _you_, however," a wry grin crept across the Major's face. "Oh no, you're going to leave the _Pillar of Autumn _by a different method. Tell me, boys and girls... How will _you _leave?"

"_WE GO FEET-FIRST, SIR!_" over five-hundred voices, including my own roared in unison. I smiled as I shouted the sacred words; it had been a little while since I had taken part in the Helljumper pre-jump ritual, and it was the first time I had done it with so many people. Normally it was just the Master Sergeant asking me, Celt, Cajun, and the others…seeing it done with an entire battalion was quite a sight.

"Damned right you will!" Silva barked. "Now, let's get to those drop pods. The Covenant is holding a picnic down on the surface, and every single one of you is invited! You have five minutes to strap in, hook up, and shove a cork in your ass."

"Wait, so we're fuckin' _jumping,_ now?" Pyro exclaimed as everyone starting moving up to the catwalk. "Jumping to what? A Covie ship?"

"Silva mentioned a construct," I reminded my squadmate. "Maybe there's some kind of space station, or asteroid base, or whatever… There's gotta be something."

"Yeah, I guess."

The platoon and squad leaders got everyone organized. We all trundled down the main catwalk and exited the engine room. Silva led us down several corridors, heading towards the drop bay. We jogged through what had been a battlefield—bodies were strewn everywhere, human and Covenant alike. Gunfire could still be heard down the corridors, but we didn't run into any firefights. The Covies must have been pushing our boys back, which would explain the absence of any significant fighting around this section of the cruiser.

We all jogged into the open drop bay, mopping up the handful of grunts and Elites that were surveying the large space. The battalion splintered into companies, then into platoons. Each platoon filed into one of the drop halls—smaller, corridor-sized spaces that branched out from the main drop bay. We called those spaces _Hell's Waiting Room_; it was where the actual drop pods were located, waiting for their troopers to occupy them.

Celt, Pyro, and I accompanied the platoon we had been fighting with in the engine room. Their sergeant directed us into three vacant drop pods; their occupants had been killed in the engine room. "Make 'em proud," the noncom said.

I climbed into my HEV pod—the late Private Owen Mallory would no longer be needing it—and quickly strapped myself in, bringing the pod's systems online and running a brief pre-jump systems check. I then sealed the pod, bringing the frontal hatch down closed over me. I eyed the little screen mounted in front of me, next to the windows, and armed my ejection tube. It was up to the computer to calculate the force and trajectory needed to ensure a 'safe' landing.

"_Initiating countdown,_" a slightly synthetic, deep voice with a stuffy British accent informed all of us over the COM. That was Wellsley, the other AI onboard the _Pillar of Autumn_. He wasn't a shipboard AI like Cortana—he was a strictly military AI; brilliant within his boundaries, but narrow-minded. He was dropping in with Major Silva. "_Please do strap in; I find myself not in the mood for a high fatality rate, today_."

A countdown meter activated in the little screen mounted in the front of the pod. I took a moment to polarize my faceplate. I then thought of Sophie Devereux—with a small pang, I realized that I no longer had her picture. It had been in my old helmet…and I have no idea where my old armor was; I had woken up in New Alexandria without it. It was probably ash, by now…

Thinking of her would have to do.

Slowly, the countdown neared zero. When it hit zip, I felt a dull _thunk,_ and then a great sense of acceleration as my pod was jettisoned from Hell's Waiting Room. The Autumn's hull flashed by outside my window and was quickly replaced by star-studded black. The first thing I could see were the hundreds of other HEV pods around mine; I'm sure we would look something like a swarm of flies as we got nearer to the surface of whatever we were dropping towards.

This first part of the jump was always very calming and relaxing. Sound doesn't travel through space, so everything was completely silent. All you could really hear was the sound of your own breathing. Even as I watched the Covie ships take small chunks out of the _Pillar of Autumn,_ it all looked like some sort of unrealistic movie with the volume set on mute.

I could see several Covie ships still closing in on the _Pillar of Autumn_. Lifeboats were being launched from the cruiser, as well. We wouldn't be alone on the surface; that's for sure…

There was also something off about the cruiser's course…almost as if it were headed down towards something…

"_Holy shit_…"

"_What the fuck _is_ that thing?_"

"_You guys seein' this?_"

"_What's that supposed to be? God's purity ring?_"

I frowned at the sudden influx of COM transmissions from the other Helljumpers—at least before Major Silva got onto the channel and put a stop to it—as I looked down past my feet, but my frown instantly vanished when I saw what we were gunning towards.

There was an immense, bluish-purple gas giant nearby, but that wasn't what held my attention. Instead, I was staring at a giant ring. I know how crazy that might sound, but I'm not shitting you; I was looking at a huge, ring-shaped construct that was located between the gas giant and its moon. And when I say huge, I don't mean size-of-a-large-building 'huge'. I mean fucking _enormous_. Able-to-fit-Earth-inside-the-ring _enormous_.

But even the sheer size of the thing wasn't the astounding part. The outside of the ring was made of a simple, gray, metallic alloy...but the _inside_ surface of the ring was completely different. I could see shades of blue, green, off-white yellow, brown; all of it partially obscured by wisps of white. _Clouds. Hills, mountains, grasslands, deserts, rivers, oceans_. I was looking at the surface of a habitable planet...on the inside of a fucking artificial ring floating in space. _That_ was what we were heading towards.

Our little fleet of drop pods cleared the outside of the massive ring construct and started to fall towards the inner surface of the ring's opposite arc. My pod began to vibrate and shake, confirming that the ring was indeed an artificial world. The shaking meant that we had entered a gravity well, which confirmed that this construct would indeed have an atmosphere. I mean, sure, seeing all those clouds and oceans from above confirmed that, too...but now I was _feeling_ the proof.

The temperature in my pod inched up towards one-hundred degrees. Seat beaded across my forehead and face. I reflexively reached up to wipe it off, but stopped when I remembered that I was wearing a helmet. The pressure in my pod began to increase, making it harder to breathe. When it got really bad, my eyes felt like they were gonna get popped like those juice-filled gummy-candies that kids these days were so fond of.

Flames licked at the HEV's protective ceramic heatshield as we went deeper into the atmosphere. My pod really started bucking, now. The deep black of space morphed into a cloudy blue sky. We were dropping into a hilly, grasslands area. I could see a chain of tall mountains in the distance, as well as a few rivers winding their way through the plain. The sunlight sparkled off the surface of these waterways, the wind rolled through the grass like waves on the ocean…it would have been so much more beautiful had the circumstances not been what they were now. I suppose falling through the atmosphere at terminal velocity in a titanium coffin didn't help matters, either.

When the altimeter hit three-thousand, I punched the chute release. There was a rough jolt as the titanium-A drag chute deployed, providing my pod some necessary deceleration. I had been through it many times, already; hit the drag chute, get a big jolt. Hit the retro thrusters at three-hundred feet, get a bigger jolt. Make landfall, get the _biggest_ jolt.

After I fired the retro thrusters as I neared the ground, I braced myself for impact. This was what we would usually call _jumping blind,_ or helljumping into a completely unknown area. Normally, before going in feet-first, we would have gathered a significant amount of intel on the place which we were dropping into. Without taking these precautions, there was a chance that we would jump into unfavorable terrain; gorges, ravines, mountainsides…_lakes,_ God forbid…you name it.

So far, the only intelligence we had on this ring world was what we had seen with our bare eyes on the way down.

I made landfall a few seconds later, grunting in pain as the safety harness bit into my chest and shoulders. But at least the jump was over—jumping blind was a big risk, and I was lucky to have landed on good, flat earth. From the chatter I was hearing, several unlucky Helljumpers hadn't landed very well. That unfavorable terrain I had mentioned earlier…there was still plenty of it around, and if you were unlucky enough to try to land on it…

I blew the front of the pod out, allowing the sunlight and the light breeze to spill into the heated interior of my pod. I unstrapped myself, grabbed my MA5B, and jumped outside, instantly dropping to my knees. After making sure that there was no immediate threat to my position, I relaxed ever so slightly, taking off my helmet for a few seconds to cool myself down.

Had this been a drop into a combat zone, I never would have done that…but, for now, there weren't any aliens close-by. Even so, I was quick to put my helmet back on.

I looked up to the sky in time to see the last groups of drop pods fall from the sky, thudding to the earth. Though we had tried to keep our formation tight, it looked like we had all landed in an area spanning roughly three kilometers. It would take some time to regroup.

A small blue arrow icon appeared on my HUD—that would be Major Silva's homing beacon, which we all had to make our way towards. Right under the icon was my distance from our new rally point: roughly two-thousand meters. I had some walking to do.

I turned back to my drop pod and recovered the rest of my ammunition, my M6D, my cubicle tent, and my rations. Once we set up a base, I'd be able to shed all this extra weight and gear…but for now, I was stuck with it.

With everything squared away, I hefted my MA5B and set off in the direction of the homing beacon. I cast glances all around at the other drop pods dotting the landscape. Dozens, hundreds of other Helljumpers were doing likewise and heading towards the same place.

For better or for worse, whatever lay ahead… I wouldn't be alone.


	66. V Chapter 66: Under Cover of Night

Chapter Sixty-Six: Under Cover of Night

**September 19, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct, Unknown Location**

I wasn't the first one to arrive at Major Silva's rally point, but I wasn't the last, either. When I _did_ arrive, though, there was almost no organization. Hellumpers were trying to regroup with lost squadmates and platoon leaders, people were trying to find lost or missing squadmates; it was a mess.

Silva's battalion also seemed to have a severe shortage of officers; his acting executive officer was a 1st Lieutenant who had used to command one of the platoons, and the individual companies were being commanded by 2nd Looeys or sergeants.

The rally point was situated on top of a hot, dry plateau. From a defensive standpoint, it was an alright place to set up a base. Not great, but not crap. There were worse places to set up shop, but there were also more ideal places that were nearby.

The first ones that I noticed during my walk towards the rally point were a tall system of hills off to the north…or at least, this ring's equivalent or 'north'. The sun was the only thing giving us a sense of direction, here. There were also those mountains that I had spotted during our jump, but they were pretty far off. There was also a large, column-shaped butte a small distance to the west that looked promising, as well.

"_Scar!_" I heard Pyro shout my name. Well, my _other_ name, if you want to get technical.

I scanned through the crowd of ODSTs in the direction of the shout, but couldn't spot my burly squadmate. When Pyro called for me a second time, though, I was able find him and Celt. I made my way through the others and reunited with the sad remains of my squad.

"Helluva drop," Celt greeted me with a thump to the shoulder.

"Helluva drop," I agreed. "Any word on the regulars that bugged out on the lifeboats?" I asked, thinking of Devereux, Dempsey, Esposito, Geoffries, and all the others.

"Naw," Pyro shook his head. "They got scattered all over this fucking place. Wesley's been in contact with them, though; he's trying to get 'em mobilized."

I frowned. "Who?"

"Wesley," Pyro repeated himself. "Ya know, the limey AI who thinks he's some sorta general?"

"You mean _Wellsley?_" I corrected my squadmate, my confusion now gone.

"Oh, same fuckin' thing," my squadmate muttered. "But yeah; he's tryin' to get all the regulars organized, which ain't gonna be easy; they're scattered over a hundred-mile-wide area."

As we spoke, we became aware of a banshee swooping in from the 'west', turned into a silhouette by the setting sun. The sergeant in command of the company my squadmates and I were attached to barked an order, and one of his platoons' rocket jockeys sank to a knee, taking careful aim at the incoming banshee.

The Covie flier's nose-mounted plasma cannons opened fire, blazing twin paths towards our position.

The Helljumper with the SPNKr fired one of her tubes. Her aim was true; the rocket slammed right into the banshee's chassis. The flier exploded, its burning debris falling back to the earth. The rocket jockey got a congratulatory clap on the back as the Helljumpers cheered at the flier's destruction.

"Either of you know what happened to the _Autumn?_" I asked my squadmates.

"I heard the Old Man scuttled her," Celt replied with a light shrug. "She crashed not too far away."

"Then we have no way off this rock," I sighed, resting my forehead in one of my hands. I was _really_ getting tired of being dropped into no-win situations. "We might as well have died on Reach. No one will come looking for us, here. _We_ don't even know where we are."

"Ever the optimist, Scar," Pyro chuckled.

They knew I was right, though. However shitty the situation on Reach had been, at least there had always been a fool's hope of reaching an extraction point, getting on board a ship, or at the very least finding an aircraft to escape on. _Here,_ though…even that fool's hope was gone.

Our one way off this place had been the cruiser we had come in on, and Captain Keyes had apparently crashed it into this ring world. And even if we had aircraft to get off this place, we didn't have anything with a translight engine; we had no way of going to Slipspace.

What was the point of even fighting, right now?

_Fuck_. I shook my head vehemently and stood back up, opting instead to start drumming on the stock of my MA5B with my fingers. Those were dangerous thoughts; if you had too many of them, your effectiveness as a soldier would dissolve and you'd eventually end up in a psych ward. Or dead.

"Somethin' on your mind?" Celt asked me, noticing my change in behavior.

"Yeah; that's the problem," I grunted.

While Major Silva conferred with the lieutenant serving as his XO, as well as the four acting company commanders, I contented myself to sit down, inspect my assault rifle—that was my main nervous tick; inspecting and re-inspecting my weapons—and take some time to marvel at this world that we were on.

This whole place was man-made…well, not _man_-made, but you know what I mean. Artificially _created_. We have been able to terraform uninhabitable worlds into tropical paradises, but the sheer concept of actually _building_ a world…and on such a scale as the ring world I was now on…

I hadn't really appreciated the magnificence and wonder of this place until now. I mean, cut me some slack; it's kind of hard to appreciate anything except your heat shield when you were falling through the atmosphere at terminal velocity. But now that I really didn't have anything to occupy my mind with...

There were a million and one questions I would love to get answers to. How old is this place? Who built it? Does it have a purpose? Where the hell do you get enough materials to build a gigantic ring wide enough to fit around Earth? What happened to the builders? Was there any-

I could go on. And on, and on…

I kind of enjoyed staring up into the sky. It was the ring world's equivalent of late afternoon, so the sky was colored a light cyan that was slowly bleeding into amber and maroon. But the fascinating part was the fact that you could see the rest of the ring world when you looked up. You could look off to one horizon and see the ring rising up in the distance from the clouds, curving impossibly high up into the sky until it looked like a thin piece of string, arcing overhead, and coming back down in a full circle, merging with the distant haze of the opposite horizon.

"Alright, Helljumpers! _On your feet!_" Major Silva thundered, his voice rising above everyone else's. "Some of you are about to go for a little nighttime stroll!" Our plateau was filled with the noise of over five-hundred ODSTs gathering their gear and weapons.

"_Good evening, Helljumpers,_" Wellsley's airy tones spoke from my helmet. His avatar appeared in one of the top corners of my HUD, several inches away from my face. He looked like the man for which he was named; strong, square features, brown hair with streaks of gray—though it wasn't really gray; it was actually flowing streams of data—a prominent nose. He was also dressed period-appropriate in a red, nineteenth-century British military uniform. Were it not for the streams of data flowing through his hair, it could very well have been the Duke of Wellington himself who was talking to us.

"_I am highlighting our new objective,_" Wellsley informed us all. "S_tructure HS2604, which we have designated as Gawilghur_. _We will be setting up_-"

"_Wellsley_…" Major Silva interrupted the AI over the COM, his voice low and threatening. It seemed Silva argued with Wellsley more often than one should have to with a military AI.

Wellsley actually sighed. "_Oh, very well,_" the AI sniffed. "_Structure HS2604, which we have designated as _Alpha Base—_bloody unimaginative, if you ask me_—_will be serving as our base of operations_."

A tiny blue arrow—similar to the one that had directed me to the post-jump rally point on this plateau—appeared on my HUD. It was tagging the tall, column-shaped butte that I had noticed on my way here. It was a few hours' march away, but we would definitely be able to reach it by dawn. It was, in my opinion, the best option out there for setting up a firebase—its sheer cliffs would prevent the Covenant from mounting a vehicular assault against us.

That was the real concern, right now; the Covies had followed us down onto the surface of this…whatever the hell this ring world was. The Covies hadn't attacked us quite yet, but it was only a matter of time before they could put together an armored assault and slam us. That banshee earlier demonstrated that they knew where we were, and that they were able to go on the offensive.

If we weren't able to hole up and get to someplace defensible—and I mean _really_ defensible, like that butte—we would get hunted down and slaughtered one by one. I'm sure the regulars who had come down in the lifeboats were facing similar problems…although their woes were bound to be worse, as they weren't as organized as us; they were scattered. Of course, if we could get that butte, then we could organize efforts to bring the regulars to us.

But all of this required one thing to be made possible: we had to take that butte. And we would have to do it by force; the Covies owned it, right now.

"_Once we secure HS2604 and set up Alpha Base, we will find ourselves in a much better position to hold fast against any attempts by the Covenant to put a premature end to our operations,_" Wellsley declared. The AI went on to outline the plan of attack.

The battalion was divided in half; Alpha and Delta Companies were going to assume defensive positions around this plateau and remain in reserve. Major Silva would remain here as well with the HQ staff. Lieutenant McKay, his XO, would take command of Bravo Company. She would march that company across the hills and set up an outpost at the foot of the butte; at dawn, Bravo would attack HS2604.

2nd Lieutenant Nakajima was taking command of Charlie Company—this was the company Silva had embedded Celt, Pyro, and me into—and he was going to march us in a different direction. Somehow—I'll never figure out how—a group of pilots had managed to reach their pelicans before the _Pillar of Autumn_ went down. They flew down in their birds rather than trust their lives to the lifeboats.

We were going to meet those pilots. Once Bravo commenced their attack, the pilots would fly us to the butte and unload us on top. This was the crux of our assault; a two-pronged ground and airborne offensive. The Covenant had a rather light garrison of Elites, jackals, and grunts on that butte. There were also a couple of banshees guarding the place—minus the one we destroyed not long ago, of course.

We set off at sunset, moving under cover of night. I'm sure the Covies probably could have detected our movement if they wanted to, but I also don't think the aliens on that butte really expected us to try to take it away from them. They probably expected us to do the sensible thing; find a nearby, unoccupied place that was easy to defend, and dig in—certainly not go looking for a fight before we had our full strength mobilized.

Well, that was all well and good, but they forgot to take one thing into account: Helljumpers aren't sensible. If you're going to join an all-volunteer outfit that jumps into atmospheres in titanium coffins, 'sensible' is the _last_ thing you want to be.

Nakajima pushed us hard all throughout the night. I had to hand it to him; he may have been a 2nd Looey, but he definitely wasn't a shavetail. He knew how to lead a platoon. Whether he could lead a company, however, remained yet to be seen.

"Christ, these nights get chilly," Pyro muttered as we trudged ever further into the darkness. I could see him with the assistance of the low-light vision enhancement system in the VISR of my helmet, but it was too dark to see anything much farther out than that. It just vanished into a green-black haze.

Pyro was right, though; nighttime brought a chill on this world. A light wind carried the chill right to us. I was glad I was wearing gloves that covered most of my hands, but I still had to breathe on my exposed fingertips every now and then to keep them from going numb.

When we finally reached the rendezvous point with the flyboys, the eastern sky was beginning to brighten. We hiked over a tall, tree-covered ridge and made visual contact with the flyboys, who were encamped down in the valley below.

We made our way down the hillside and joined the pilots, who emerged from their dropships to greet us, some of them still rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

"Ahoy, ground-pounders!" one of the pilots gave us an overdramatic wave as we reached their camp and all sat down for a quick rest. We had been marching all night long; we were tired.

"Good to see some friendly faces," the leader of the group of pilots stepped down from her bird and traded salutes with Lieutenant Nakajima. She had the insignia of a flight captain on her suit, which would put her in charge of the rest of the pilots. "And Helljumpers, no less. I'm Carol Rawley, 23rd Naval Air Squadron CO."

"Lieutenant Nakajima, acting Charlie Company CO," our El-Tee introduced himself as he returned the salute. "You're our rides, according to Wellsley and Major Silva."

"I can spare you three birds," Captain Rawley said to Nakajima. "The rest are coming with me. Once the sun rises, we're going to start hunting for the marines who came down here in the lifeboats. They could probably use a helping hand."

"If all goes well, you'll be able to bring them back to that butte," Lieutenant Nakajima assured her.

Before they could speak anymore, the COM crackled and Major Silva's voice issued forth. "_Gold One, this is Red One,_" Silva said. "_Gold One, please respond,_ _over_."

"This is Gold One," Nakajima responded. "Go ahead, Major."

"_Bravo Company has engaged the Covenant, son. I need you and your men in the air five minutes ago,_" Major Silva said to the El-Tee.

"Yessir," Nakajima responded. "Cavalry's on the way. Gold One out," the El-Tee killed the channel before turning back to Captain Rawley. "That's our cue."

"Alright. Peterson, Rousseau, Polaski," Rawley pointed at three of her pilots, "you're with the Helljumpers. Get your birds fired up; you're departing immediately."

The three pilots rose to their feet and headed over to their birds, along with their copilots. Within a minute, the trio of pelicans was ready to roll.

Lieutenant Nakajima sent Celt, Pyro, and me into one of the waiting pelicans with another thirteen or fourteen Helljumpers. This put the dropship at over-capacity, but we were past worrying about safety regulations, at this point. We needed to get as many troops onto that butte as possible, and if we had to break a few regulations along the way, so be it.

I poked my head into the cockpit of this pelican as we lifted off, ascending into the air and heading off in the direction of HS2604. "We just keep running into each other, don't we?" I grinned at the pilot.

Lieutenant François Rousseau spared me a quick glance. I had my faceplate depolarized so that he would recognize me, which he did. "There has to be a word for this. Star-crossed, maybe?" the pilot grunted, returning his attention to the controls.

I really didn't know very much about Rousseau at all. He had piloted the pelican that had airlifted me and Doc Patrikos out of New Alexandria, he had flown the bird that had evacuated me from the Aszod ship-breaking yards, and now he was taking me to what would hopefully become our firebase. Other than seeing him on those occasions, I didn't really know anything about him, but Fate just seemed to keep on throwing him my way.

The butte came in sight when we rose above the ridges and hills which the pelicans had been nestled in. Though it took all night for Bravo Company to walk there from our position on that plateau, it would only take a few minutes for these pelicans to cover the same distance.

I think we all felt a little resentment as we watched the ground, the same ground which we had spent all night hoofing it over, simply flew past. What had been hours for us was minutes for these aircraft.

"Man...soldiers who fought in wars before vehicles were invented? They didn't know what they were missin'..." Pyro grumbled, holding his MA5B tight. I sat next to him on one of the benches, drumming idly on my assault rifle again as I waited for us to reach our destination.

"No, they didn't," Celt hummed in agreement. "They never had to deal with aliens or plasma, either."

The pelican trip lasted around ten minutes total. When we reached the butte which we were going to capture, we could see smoke rising from the area on the cliffside where Bravo Company was pinned down. They had certainly gotten the Covenant garrison's attention. There were a handful of shade turrets placed at strategic points along the ridges, as well. It was them, more than anything else, that was stalling Bravo.

"_Twenty seconds!_" Lieutenant Rousseau shouted back to us from the cockpit.

I ordered everyone to gear up. I had realized that, as a Gunnery Sergeant, I was the highest-ranking person on this bird. Might as well take some small semblance of control, then, until an officer arrived.

Fuel rod projectiles began streaking through the air, some of them coming pretty close to hitting us. None of them did, though; that would really have ruined my day.

Rousseau handled his bird as expertly as he could. Though I'm sure luck had something to do with us not getting hit, I'm also sure that the Lieutenant's skill as a pilot didn't hurt, either. The Frenchman brought us in low, skimming over the surface of the butte's flat top. Rousseau couldn't bring us to a full stop without risking getting blown up, so he slowed down as much as he could. Getting off, however, was our job.

"Aight, everyone out!" Pyro thundered. His lungs were probably twice as large as mine, so he was better suited for the shouting job. "_Let's go, let's go!_"

I tightened my grip on my assault rifle as I stood up. I jogged down the aisle of the troop bay and leaped out of the back, bending my knees as I made landfall to absorb the shock of impact.

My side flared with pain as I hit the plasma burn that was near my abdomen. I had gotten shot by a jackal during the fight at the Aszod ship-breaking yards, and the burns hadn't quite healed yet; they still hurt whenever they got agitated.

Our pelican was the last to arrive out of the three. By the time we hit the dirt, there were already thirty or so Helljumpers securing a landing zone. The birds then circled back around, heading back to the waypoint to transport the second and final wave of ODSTs to our position.

There was a cluster of variegated, flat-roofed structures at the northern end of the mesa. We had been deposited at the southern end, so we had some flat ground to cover at first. There were mostly grunts and jackals facing us out in the open. We took some casualties in the initial landing, but once we carved out an LZ, we were able to start steadily advancing across the surface of the mesa, mopping up the Covenant infantry in our way.

Truth be told, we weren't facing the garrison's full strength. A good part of their force was no doubt on the cliff pathway, trying to hold off Bravo Company. Once the Elites emerged from the buildings, though, we were stalled. The rest of Charlie Company arrived a couple minutes later. The gunfire on the cliff pathway below which Bravo Company was fighting its way up was growing louder and louder. McKay was pushing her forces hard.

Nakajima took command of us once more when he was dropped off by one of the pelican pilots along with the rest of Charlie. The three birds then departed to the east in order to pick up Major Silva and his staff. Alpha and Delta Companies wouldn't be far behind.

We lost a few more Helljumpers to the Elites, but the reinforcements from the rest of Charlie Company bolstered our offensive. We got moving again, picking off the Elites one by one. I wish I had my sniper rifle on me; I could have taken a fair number of them out from long range…but time spent wishing is time wasted, blah blah blah…

We mopped up most of the grunts and jackals that were still outside those structures on the north end of the mesa. There had only been a handful of Elites on this butte to begin with, and we had taken several of them out, already. The couple that remained alive holed up in one of the alien structures, and we had to use flashbangs to smoke them out.

Major Silva and his staff landed on the mesa as we cleared that last building. Just then, Lieutenant McKay led Bravo Company out of the largest structure. We traded slaps on the shoulders and other forms of greeting with the other Helljumpers. I had no idea how they ended up inside that structure—later, I would find out that they had actually fought their way up through a subterranean cave system that ran through this butte. But right now, all that mattered was the fact that Alpha Base now belonged to us.

And we were here to stay.

Ehm...so, now what?


	67. V Chapter 67: Stranger in a Strange Land

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Strangers in a Strange Land

**September 20, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct, Unknown Location**

The moon was out in its full glory. Though, I suppose it wasn't really a moon; it was actually a planet that was orbiting around the purplish-blue star that served as this ring world's sun. But from where I was standing, it looked like a giant moon.

The smoke and dust were still settling. The ozone-like smell of plasmafire still lingered in the light breeze, more evidence of the intense firefight that had just occurred on this very mesa. Gradually, Alpha and Delta Companies joined us on the mesa, and we started setting up camp.

The routine was interrupted several minutes later when Captain Rawley's pelican arrived at our de facto landing strip. A group of marine regulars limped off the dropship, but exiting the bird right behind them was a seven-foot-tall giant, clad in dull green power armor.

_Spartan_.

All the side conversations faded away as the supersoldier disembarked. He didn't say a word; he went straight into the structure which Major Silva had set up his headquarters in. None of us were exactly eager to engage him in conversation, anyway.

"Didn't know we had a Spartan on the _Autumn,_" Celt muttered. I noticed that Celt, who had always used to refer to Spartans as _freaks,_ had not done so just now. Maybe I wasn't the only one who had been force-fed a change of opinion after what happened in Aszod.

"Neither did I," Pyro said. "Not really complaining, though. We can use all the guns we can get…"

I just shrugged and went back to putting up my cubicle. It felt good to shed all the extra weight I had had to lug to and from our old rally point on the ground. I set all my personal rations into my cubicle, lightening my load by several pounds.

Other Helljumpers set up their living spaces on the southern end of the mesa, where the ground was clear. We also started to set up our fifty-caliber autocannons, which had been given to us earlier by the pelican pilots. Wellsley would soon be able to control both those autocannons and the shade turrets left behind by the Covies along the perimeter and structures on top of this butte.

Half an hour after that Spartan arrived, he emerged from Major Silva's 'office' and climbed back into Captain Rawley's pelican. Lieutenant McKay led an entire company of Helljumpers into that pelican behind him, as well as the three other birds parked alongside Rawley's. The flight captain's bird rose back up into the air and vanished into the night, followed by the pelicans of her subordinates.

There was some murmuring that arose as people wondered where that Spartan was going with our executive officer and a full quarter of our strength, but it only lasted a few minutes before the Helljumpers got back to setting up their living spaces.

We had won a victory, here. But, as with any other victory in the history of warfare, this one had its price. We had lost twelve Helljumpers trying to take this place. They weren't horrible losses, but they were still losses.

We spent the rest of the night and early morning clearing out all of the corpses from the top of our little mesa. It would be unsanitary—let alone disrespectful, or just plain disgusting—to leave dead bodies scattered around our base. We buried our dead in shallow graves marked with small piles of stones, keeping the unfortunate Helljumpers' dogtags for ourselves. They would be remembered.

The bodies of the Covenant dead, on the other hand, were dragged to the edges of the mesa and unceremoniously flung down the cliffs. Several Helljumpers were having a grand old time dropkicking the corpses of the grunts and seeing how far out they could make them fly. The one who kicked his or her grunt the farthest would win a pool of cigarettes.

That's another thing you'll learn about soldiers; mildly fucked up senses of humor. When you fight genocidal aliens for years on end, the old '_what do you call two banana peels?_' doesn't really cut it, anymore. War warps our minds and personalities, but it also shits on our humor.

After helping out with the autocannons until dawn, I retired to my cubicle and grabbed an hour or two of shuteye. It wasn't enough; I felt like I had been asleep for about three or four seconds, and I woke up feeling even more tired than when I had crawled into the tent-like structure.

The base was abuzz with talk on Captain Keyes. Word had it that the Old Man had been captured yesterday by the Covies. My first instinct was to dismiss these claims—Covies don't take prisoners. Why would they suddenly start _now,_ after twenty-eight years?

But then one of the pilots returned to Alpha Base after following a COM signal, and he reported that he had found the entire bridge crew of the _Autumn_ in a distant canyon—they had all been executed. Well, everyone except Captain Keyes himself; he was missing. Then a Spartan shows up out of nowhere and leaves just as quickly... Strange things were going on, here.

A steady stream of marines had been joining the Helljumpers already living in Alpha Base, brought here by the efforts of our pilots. Since the sun came up, that squadron of pelicans had been working tirelessly to extract the marines who had come to this ring world on the _Pillar of Autumn's_ lifeboats.

After I finished my work on graves detail, I grabbed a ration can of deviled ham and a water pouch, and I rested back against the wall of one of the alien structures on this mesa. I watched as the pelicans came and went, dropping off more loads of marines and naval personnel. It wasn't until about an hour later, when familiar faces emerged from one of the birds, that I got back up and went to the airstrip.

This time, _I_ was the one to crush my oldest friend in a bear hug. "You look like hammered shit, Dempsey," I observed as I stepped back.

All the marines who were arriving here at Alpha Base looked like hammered shit; they were dirty, ragged, half-starved, and completely exhausted. They had been fighting throughout the night, but—unlike us—they had not been fighting as part of a battalion. It had pretty much been every lifeboat for itself.

The marines who arrived here looked like shit, but they were the lucky ones.

Devereux emerged from the dropship behind Dempsey, but she wasn't on her feet. Two other marines were carrying her out on a stretcher. She looked pale from what seemed to be blood loss. There were bloodied bandages pressed against her stomach, as well, which really didn't make her look any better.

Devereux flashed me a wan half-smile as she was carried past. "Hello, Alley," she said to me, her voice raspy and haggard.

"Oh, Soph…" I murmured, slipping my hand into hers as I fell into step with the two marines carrying her stretcher. Dempsey followed us as well, staying a little further behind. "What did the bastards do to you?"

"_De nien,_" she grunted, giving a dismissive wave with her other hand. "It's nothing. Just got nicked by an energy sword, that's all. Seriously, I'm _fine_…"

When we got underground to the infirmary, which was situated in one of the larger caves that ran through the interior of the butte, two medics told me not to follow them into the makeshift operating room, where they would go to work on Devereux. Doc Patrikos had arrived at Alpha Base earlier on, and he was heading things up down here.

I knew that Devereux would be unconscious for a while even after the medics were finished postponing her journey into the Afterlife, so I decided to return to the surface with Dempsey.

"How bad was it?" I asked Dempsey as we made it back outside. "For real."

"Pretty damn bad," Dempsey sighed, pausing to slip a cigarette out of one of his side pockets. "Split-chin son of a bitch had active camo; we never saw it coming. I actually had to push some of her guts back…back inside her…" Dempsey broke off for a moment, doubling over and retching whatever his last meal had been all over the grass.

"Don't worry about giving me the details," I stopped my friend before he could go on. One vomiting session was quite enough.

Dempsey straightened back up, spitting residue out of his mouth. "Sorry," he grunted, running his tongue over his teeth one last time. "Been trying to…you know…_not_ think about that, but it's easier said than done…"

"Well, she'll live, so you did _something_ right," I chuckled.

"Oh, good, the medics said she'd be alright?"

"She'll be fine," I repeated myself, my tone hardening a little.

I think Dempsey noticed that I hadn't actually answered his question. The answer was _no;_ I hadn't gotten any guarantee—or even reassurance, for that matter—that Devereux would live to see tomorrow. All I had was my refusal to accept the alternative.

My oldest friend noticed this, but he had the good sense not to vocalize it.

I didn't have much time to stew, though. Master Sergeant Lister came over and found me. "Garris!" he was shouting as me moved through the rows of cubicles. "Gunnery Sergeant Garris!"

Lister was the highest-ranking NCO in Major Silva's battalion. He also ranked higher than any of the marine NCOs that were coming in; we had lost a lot of our leadership recently, either on Reach, or during the flight from the Pillar of Autumn. There weren't very many NCOs left who ranked over Sergeant.

"Over here, Top!" I waved over to Lister, grateful for whatever distraction was sure to follow.

"Garris," Lister made his way over to where Dempsey and I were standing, sketching a salute. "The Major wants to see you, pronto. Don't make him wait."

"Gotta run," I clapped Dempsey on the shoulder. Lister then led me back through our part of the camp, past the Covenant airstrip, and into the centermost of the alien structures on the northern end of the mesa, which was serving as Silva's command post.

I walked through the entrance and headed down several bloodstained corridors. The blood on the walls was, for the most part, luminescent blue—grunt's blood. Many of the garrison of grunts had fled indoors as we stormed what would later become Alpha Base. They were fleeing the company I had been inserted with…and ended up running right into Bravo Company, which came up through the caves. It had been a bloodbath.

Two Helljumpers stood guard outside Silva's door. Lister traded salutes with them and told them to let me pass. Both sentries stepped to the side and waved me in.

Silva sat on a padded seat that had been salvaged from one of the lifeboats. He was situated behind a makeshift desk—actually two large, empty ammo crates pushed together and covered with papers, a pair of datapads, an M6D sidearm, and a helmet.

I snapped to attention, as was proper when addressing a superior officer. "Major, sir," I said.

"At ease, Gunny," Major Silva returned my salute, gesturing for me to sit on one of the chairs in front of his desk.

I sank into one of the seats and waited patiently for Silva to tell me why he had called me here.

"I had Wellsley review your CSV," Major Silva said to me. "I see that you were a member of the famous Harvest Militia. You also survived the subsequent campaign to retake that colony. Quite impressive; not many of the jarheads who went to Harvest came out the other end breathing, let alone in one piece."

"No, sir," I gave an agreeing nod. Hell, he was right; I was lucky enough for making it off Harvest during that first decade of the war. Surviving all of my later battles were miracles in of themselves, but surviving Harvest had been the first miracle, as well as the largest, with the possible exception of getting off Reach. Getting off this ring world might prove to be an even larger one than _that_.

"Then after that, it says you were Force Recon for…" the Major squinted at one of his datapads, looking for the piece of information that was just beyond the grasp of his memory. "…six years. That's a long time fighting in the trenches; mind telling me what the hell took you so long to join our outfit?"

"I tried to volunteer eight times," I answered the Major. "My division commander blocked it every time because my battalion was short on seasoned NCOs."

Major Silva gave a slight nod at my answer, as if it was what he had been expecting me to say. Maybe it _was_. "I have the dates of when you were recruited into our outfit, as well as observations of you during your training in the Ural Mountains. After you survived boot camp and joined your unit, however, your record is almost nothing but black ink."

"Yes, sir," was all I said. It didn't surprise me that the portion of my CSV that detailed what I had done with Archangel—the designator name of the squad that I was part of—was blacked out. We had gotten tied up in some pretty sensitive stuff over the years; 'stuff' that ONI brass wouldn't exactly want to be written in neon colors all over a soldier's career service vitae.

"The point to all of this is that you appear to be a man who knows what the hell he is doing," Major Silva continued. "You may think you owe your survival solely to luck-"

_No, not just luck,_ I thought. He didn't know about the three-mandibled Elite Major who spared me on Verus III, or the Spartan who saved everyone's ass back in Aszod. I decided not to mention them.

"-but you also owe it to the fact that you seem to be one helluva soldier. Give _yourself_ some credit, too," Silva finished. He reclined back into his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and steepling his fingers. "I never usually grill a Helljumper like this, but you aren't a part of my battalion. I need to get the feel of a man before putting him in command, and I think you can handle yourself."

The words almost caught in my throat, but I was able to almost stammer, "Command, sir?"

"Yes, Gunnery Sergeant, _command,_" Silva's mouth curved in a faint smile. "The ONI freak is on his way back here with Captain Keyes; as I'm sure you've gleaned by now, the Covies captured the Old Man yesterday, but he's back in friendly hands, now. But what matters even _more_ is the intel gathered during the op; the Covies call this place…" Silva hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly in a small frown, "…well, there's no direct translation, but the closest would be _Halo_. And it isn't just an artificial world; it's an installation of some kind, and the Covenant want to activate it."

"Do we know what happens if they do?" I asked.

Major Silva shook his head. "No, we don't. And your job, _our_ job, is to make sure we never find out. If activating this place is something the Covenant wants to happen, odds are it's not something we're gonna like. This ring world has a control room of sorts, a place from which it can be activated. I'm sending Lieutenant McKay with Bravo Company to the _Pillar of Autumn's_ crash site to recover supplies for our growing population of regulars. When they return, I'll leave her in command of Alpha Base, under Captain Keyes. You and I, however, will be taking half the battalion out to this control room, and we'll stop the Covies from using it."

I gave a final nod, taking in and ingesting this information as best as I could. "Sounds like fun, sir."

Silva's faint grin widened a little. "That's what I like to hear."

"Where is this control room?" I asked, wanting to get every last scrap of intel I could on wherever it was that we'd be going.

"We don't know that, yet, either," Silva replied. "Cortana discovered intel on the Covenant Battlenet of some sort of structure not far from here that functions as a kind of...map-room. From there, we can find this control room. But this will be handled very shortly; all we have to do is wait." Just before the Major finished his sentence, one of the monitors situated on his desk began to beep, signalling an incoming COM transmission. Silva read the message, mouthing the words silently. When he finished, he rose to his feet and brought his hand up to his forehead in a salute. "Captain Keyes has just arrived. You're dismissed, Garris."

"Sir," I stood up as well and returned the salute. I then turned on my heel and left the room.

I was glad to breathe fresh air once again when I got back outside. The smell of all the blood on the floors and walls of the CP could get nauseating if you had to breathe it in for too long.

True to Major Silva's word, over on the airstrip I could see a spirit dropship coming to rest on one of the open landing pads. When it powered down, the green-armored Spartan supersoldier I had seen before disembarked alongside an older, gray-haired man in a tattered Naval officer's uniform. Captain Keyes looked like hammered shit, too.

Lieutenant McKay came off next, followed by most of the company she had led to rescue the Old Man. They didn't all come off that spirit, obviously; a pair of pelicans had been accompanying the Covenant dropship, carrying loads of their own.

I kept walking, casting my eyes skyward, taking some small measure of solace by looking at the arc of the ring world curving gently over my head.

_Halo_. I murmured the word, the name to myself quietly. I said it again, louder this time. I liked it; it was a good name. Better than God's Purity Ring, or Cosmic Hula Hoop, at least. It accurately described the shape of this ring world, but at the same time retained its breathtaking, almost mystical aura.

Sometimes the Covenant can be long-winded, but they've always been good at naming things. And massive, species-wide genocide, too, but I digress…

I sat against one of the short, stumpy trees that twisted up from the ground near the eastern edge of the mesa. I sat there silently for maybe fifteen minutes or so before Dempsey found me and told me that Devereux had regained consciousness in the infirmary. Apparently her wound hadn't been as bad as he was making it out to be, otherwise she wouldn't be awake so soon after surgery, even with our lack of good anesthetic.

"She's asking for you," he said, talking around the cigarette he had clamped between his teeth. He paused to take a quick drag, blew the smoke back out into the wind, and took the cig out of his mouth. "Mind telling me what Long John Silva wanted with you?"

"Long John Silva? Really?" I smirked at that, already starting to head towards the structure that led to the infirmary. "He's planning an op…and I think he wants me to be his first mate."

"So, what does that makes you, then? Mr. Smee?"

"Wrong story, Demp."


	68. V Chapter 68: Confessions

Chapter Sixty-Eight: Confessions

**September 20, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "Halo", Unknown Location**

Bravo Company, led by Lieutenant McKay, had assembled near the airstrip. I passed by them as McKay gave them their quick pre-mission briefing. I assumed that they were the ones whom Silva had mentioned were going to recover supplies from the crashed _Pillar of Autumn._

We desperately needed those supplies, too. The Helljumpers—myself included—were pretty well off; we dropped onto Halo with enough rations to last two or so weeks. The same wasn't true for all the marine regulars and naval personnel who came in on the lifeboats. If we didn't get supplies, and soon, they would starve.

But for now, all of these logistical problems took a back burner to a certain someone who I was on my way to visit. I walked into one of the smaller alien structures on the northern end on Alpha Base and descended into the tunnel system that ran throughout the butte's interior. The tunnels themselves linked a series of large caves to one another. They weren't pure holes in the rock, either; many of them had alloy paneling on the floor and walls, like partial hallways.

One of the caves down here functioned as Alpha Base's control room, which was operated by a team of naval technicians from the _Autumn's_ former crew. Another one was serving as our infirmary. That was the cave I went to, brushing past corpsmen heading to the surface, or other marines coming down to visit their wounded comrades.

"How is she, Doc?" I asked Athos Patrikos when I reached the infirmary.

Doc Patrikos already knew why I was here. "She's not quite stable, but she's well on her way," the combat surgeon said. "Wounds inflicted by energy swords are quite unique; the heat of the blade almost instantly cauterizes the wound before it has a chance to even bleed. Devereux's wound was wide enough that it _didn't _cauterize, unfortunately...she was lucky her lifeboat had biofoam. I was able to stitch her back up before she could bleed out, or before there was a good chance of infection, so the outlook is good...but we're not out of the woods, yet."

"Can she fight?"

This time, the doctor shook his head. "Not for at least another week. If she moves too much, there's always a chance that her blood vessels in the afflicted area will rupture, causing massive internal bleeding, and once that starts, it's pretty damn hard to stop."

I thanked Patrikos and walked around him, moving over to Devereux's cot. There weren't very many wounded down here; most of us had been wounded too lightly to need to be confined to a bed. And most of us who had been wounded seriously enough to warrant such treatment had bought the farm in the process.

"Didn't think you'd be awake so soon," I smiled as I sat next to her cot.

"Is that a problem?" she arched an eyebrow. "I hope I'm not interrupting your sacred Helljumper schedule."

"My schedule? Not at all," I shook my head. "Later, you will be, though. Major Silva wants me to be his second in command for an op."

"You? Helping to lead an entire battalion?" Devereux gave a soft whistle. "I remember back when you were just a lowly squad leader. You're on the up and up, now."

"Well, I don't know about _lowly,_" I chuckled. "I mean, I was no Macintyre, but I don't think I was _lowly_..."

We chatted for a little while, mostly catching up on lost time. Devereux told me of how her lifeboat had crashed in the middle of a lake, and a third of the marines inside drowned before they could reach the shore. Those who _had_ reached the shore had, for the most part, only pistols to defend themselves with. Their concept of 'heavy gunner' had been the one man with their complement's single recovered assault rifle.

They then spent the entire night playing cat and mouse with Covenant patrols sent to hunt them down—the Covies were the cat, obviously, and the marines the mouse. They were on the brink of being overrun when one of the pelican pilots finally arrived and rescued them.

I told her of our efforts to take this butte and make it into Alpha Base. I had been right; the marines who came down in the lifeboats had it much worse than us. But we had extracted most of the, by now, swelling the population of Alpha Base from five hundred to roughly seven hundred.

I took a deep breath and finally screwed up the courage to ask Devereux something I had wanted to ask her for a long time. Considering the current circumstances, I think there was a good chance she'd actually give me an answer, this time. Maybe.

"Soph... there's something I need to ask you, and I don't think you're gonna want to answer. Hell, you don't even _have_ to answer...but still I need to ask you. I might not be alive tomorrow."

"Don't talk like that," Devereux struggled to sit up, but failed, settling back onto her single pillow. "You scare me when you talk like that."

I stopped dawdling and got right down to the matter at hand. "After I left the 9th, Soph… I didn't hear from you for three years. _Three years_. Then I find out at Camp Hathcock that you were on an alcohol binge, drugs, depression…for three goddamn years…" I turned my gaze up to meet Devereux's. "What the fuck happened?"

Devereux was silent, not giving me an answer. We sat there for a full minute or so, neither of us moving or speaking, until I felt a critical point had been reached, and I decided to change the subject.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Devereux took me completely by surprise. "We had a daughter."

The first word out of my mouth fizzled and died where it stood, leaving me slack-jawed and paralyzed. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a series of unintelligible noises…apt, considering what she was telling me.

I mean, _fuck!_ What…what the _fuck?_ What the fuck do I say to that?

Am I a father? I'm a father? Is that a good thing to ask? _No, of _course_ you're a father, dumb shit; she just said you had a_… _had a_…

Oh, God…

"_Had_ a daughter?" I croaked.

"I came down with some kind of flu after you left New Harmony," Devereux said softly, her eyes beginning to glisten as she dug through memories that had no-doubt been long-buried. "Doc Patrikos had me sent to the military hospital on Emerald Cove, which was only the next star system over, and the people there found out that I was…you know."

"What did…what did she look like?" I managed to ask, slowly regaining my ability to speak.

"_Elle __était belle,_" Devereux spoke in her native tongue without realizing it at first. "She was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen…"

I asked her the next question on my mind, but this time I really didn't want to know the answer…but it wasn't a question of what I wanted to know, but a question of what I _had_ to know. "What happened to her?"

"I gave her up for adoption," Devereux admitted. "What kind of life would it have been for her, had I not? Growing up with parents who are never there? She was taken in by a family who would be able to care for her like a proper family should."

"And then Emerald Cove got glassed…" I murmured. It all made perfect, terrible sense, now. Devereux finds out that the world her—_our_—daughter was living on is now just a cinder, and she nearly falls apart for three years. I also remembered her odd reaction back in Aszod to Dempsey when he brought up Emerald Cove…that, too, made perfect, terrible sense.

Devereux had to live with the pain of losing a child who she never would have been able to raise…but now I had to deal with the knowledge of having a dead daughter who I've never even laid eyes on, let alone _knew_. I'm not sure which was worse.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked her, shooting her an accusing glare. "She was _my_ daughter, too; I had a right to know."

"Why, so _you_ could fall off the wagon and nearly kill yourself with whiskey like I did?" Devereux shook her head vehemently. "No. That pain nearly killed me; the last thing I wanted to do was spread it to you. If I was ever going to tell you, it would have been after this war was over, and I'm not one bit sorry for that."

Suddenly, it felt like the walls of the infirmary were closing in on me. I couldn't breathe. "I…I need a moment," I gasped, staggering to my feet and stumbling out of the cave. I started moving through the tunnels, breaking out into a jog, and then a full run, almost desperate to get back outside.

Of course I was furious with her. At this point, I really didn't give a shit about how good or logical her reasoning for keeping that knowledge from me was; I was just _mad_. Hell, if this ever happened to you, _you'd_ be mad, too! I mean, _Jesus_…

"Alley! Hey, Alley, wait up!"

I gave a quiet groan as I heard my oldest friend jogging up alongside me. Normally I always welcomed Dempsey's company, but right now I just needed alone time. And a _lot_ of it. "Not now, Dempsey," I started to say, but Dempsey either ignored me or didn't even hear what I was trying to say.

"One of the groups of marines from the lifeboats came in with an Elite prisoner," he said, speaking rapidly with excitement. "I can't even remember the last time we took a split-chin sonofabitch alive! And get this; the interrogators got the location of a major Covenant weapons cache out of the bastard!"

I think Dempsey finally noticed my lack of interest by now, and a frown crept over his face. "What the hell's up with you? Normally you'd be all over the prospect of getting your hands on some Covenant weaponry. Wait, it wasn't Devereux, was it? Is she alright?"

"Yeah, she's fine," I nodded absent-mindedly, trying real hard to keep my emotions suppressed in front of my friend. "Can we talk about this later? Right now I need...I don't even know. I need a few minutes of quiet."

Dempsey gave an understanding nod. Not that he knew what was troubling me, but he still knew the value of alone time. "Tell you what," he offered. "Take some time to yourself. We can talk about it when I get back."

"Get back?" I arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Going somewhere?"

Dempsey gave another nod; this one a more excited one than the last. "Captain Keyes is leading a small force to secure that Covie weapons cache, and I was selected to be part of one of their squads. I'll finally get to shoot some plasma rifles!"

"Come back in one piece, will you?"

"Yeah, I'll do that. See you in a few hours," Dempsey clapped me on the shoulder and strode off towards the airstrip.

I breathed a sigh of relief after he left. I started heading towards the eastern edge of Alpha Base, looking for the tree I had been sitting under before. Finally, I could get some peace and quiet. That was all I wanted, right now...peace and-

"Gunnery Sergeant Garris!"

_God damn it all_...

Corporal Reinhart, who was serving as Major Silva's runner, was calling my name. I stopped dead in my tracks and, unwillingly, turned myself back around. "What is it, Corporal?" I asked the Helljumper, taking great care to make sure none of my emotions manifested themselves in my tone of voice.

"Major Silva wants to see you in the CP on the double, sir," the Corporal said to me. I gave another inward sigh. I just couldn't seem to catch a break, today, could I? I followed Reinhart back up to the northern end of Alpha Base and ducked into the CP structure, walking through those bloodstained corridors once more. I passed Captain Keyes along the way, trading quick salutes with the Old Man.

The two sentries let me enter Major Silva's 'office' at the behest of Corporal Reinhart.

Major Silva was red-faced and breathing heavily when I entered the room. He looked like he had just been in a shouting match. There was a slight indent in one of the ammo crates that formed his makeshift desk, and the knuckles of his left hand were bruised.

"Everything alright, sir?" I asked, closing the door behind me.

"_We_ are going to be what wins this war, Gunnery Sergeant," Major Silva said to me, not bothering with a salute or even a conventional greeting. "Not fancy machinery or technology, not those freaks from the ONI factories...but real humans, _real_ soldiers, green to the very core, fighting to save our race..." the Major's voice trailed off as he sank back into his chair, wearily massaging his temples. "The marines sent to Halo's map-room just discovered the location of the control room to this entire place. Cortana sent Wellsley the coordinates."

"When do we leave, sir?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

"We won't be. We have been taken off the control room op, Garris," Silva informed me. "Captain Keyes seems to believe that the ONI freak can do a better job than us."

Major Silva wasn't quite as good as hiding his emotions; it wasn't very hard to detect that bitterness and resentment in his voice that was common in many ODSTs when the Spartans were mentioned or involved.

I wasn't all that affected by this new turn of events. I was always ready to do whatever my superiors asked of me, but I no longer took joy or any other kind of positive response to fighting the Covies, anymore. I was too much of an old man to fight with the same fury as my younger comrades. It was alright, though; determination and experience more than made up for my emotional shortcomings.

And besides...after what just transpired in the infirmary, I don't think it would have been a good idea to have me helping to lead an entire op. It was safe to easy that I was a little emotionally compromised, right now.

The contingent of Helljumpers under Lieutenant McKay had departed for the ruins of the _Pillar of Autumn_ already, and now the force of marines under the personal command of Captain Keyes—Dempsey included—climbed into a trio of pelicans, which promptly soared up and away from the airstrip.

Finally free of those earlier distractions, I returned to my tree and sat down, leaning back against its trunk.

Such a strange thing…to have fatherhood thrust upon you, and then have it ripped away a split-second later.

Devereux was right, of course…there was no feasible way we could have been parents for the girl Devereux gave birth to. ONI Black Ops owned me—mind, body, and soul. Devereux herself was constantly traveling with the 9th Force Recon, as well… It never would have worked.

But still... I would have liked to have at least _seen_ her, just once…held her hand, carried her on my shoulders…

"_I fucking hate this war_…" I muttered.


	69. V Chapter 69: Hollow

Chapter Sixty-Nine: Hollow

**September 20, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "Halo", Unknown Location**

I hadn't said a word since my little chat with Major Silva an hour or so ago. Right now, I was in a sort of limbo; I was supposed to be part of a large operation that would involve us storming the control room of this ring world, but Captain Keyes had given that operation over to the Spartan. It was probably underway at this very moment.

I was still shell-shocked from earlier. It's really hard to describe... I felt kind of hollow on the inside. I mean, I've always felt empty these past few years-twenty-eight straight years of battle can do that to a man-but I had always been able to ignore that feeling and keep on going. Now, that feeling had just multiplied.

Though before I really hadn't minded being taken off the control room op, now I silently cursed Captain Keyes. I wanted-no, I _needed_ something to do, something to occupy my mind. I needed a battle so that I could concentrate on staying alive and killing any non-human in my way..._anything_ to take my mind off of what Devereux had told me.

The other option was getting drunk, but we didn't exactly have an abundance of alcohol here. And drunken Helljumpers were the very _last_ thing we needed to stay alive. Not that it really mattered; the only feasible way of getting off this ring world would be by taking over that Covenant cruiser Captain Keyes had been imprisoned on, but that would never happen in a thousand years.

Even if I couldn't partake in a battle, I still needed to do _something_. I would go crazy if I kept on pondering like this.

In the future, I would remember thinking these things, longing to have something to do...and I would forever regret them. Sometimes...sometimes you actually _get_ what you wish for, and then you find out how ignorant you had really been.

I was interrupted from my earlier thoughts by the noise of an incoming pelican dropship. It really wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but it was enough to drag me out of my own head.

I got back up to my feet and started heading for my cubicle. I whistled softly as I walked. I didn't have any particular tune in mind; I was just jumping from note to note with no real rhythm or pattern.

It had started to rain several minutes earlier. We hadn't been aware that Halo would have actual weather patterns, but that small part of our ignorance had been rectified. The rain came down in large, blood-warm drops; this was the kind of rain that always felt good.

The monotony was briefly broken when Lieutenant McKay returned to Alpha Base along with her company and a pair of scorpion tanks. I gave the new arrivals a quick glance of muted interest before going back to staring at the sky.

Maybe I could climb into my cubicle and grab some more shuteye—there's nothing better to put a person to sleep than the pattering of rain.

No sooner had the enticing thought entered my mind that all Hell suddenly decided to break loose. My heart nearly jumped into my mouth when Alpha Base's full alert klaxon suddenly began to blare, quickly followed by the unmistakable hiss of plasmafire coming in the direction of the airstrip. Furious gunfire quickly responded to the energy pulses, adding to the mayhem. Marines were running this way and that, grabbing weapons and clothes, reporting to the center of the shitstorm.

I swore and broke out into a sprint, scooping up my MA5B from my cubicle and sealing my helmet over my neck and head.

"What in the name o' the good Lord's puckered arsehole is this?" Celt nearly screamed when I ran into him as I gathered my weapons and ammo.

"Don't matter!" Pyro shot back. "I think the sound of plasma speaks for itself, man!"

We quickly geared up and started making our way towards the airstrip. A cloud of steam was beginning to billow up into the air as the plasmafire connected with the falling water droplets of the rain, vaporizing them with their intense heat.

Just as we reached the airstrip, there was a sudden explosion of flame, powerful and hot enough to force us to shield our masked faces and step back.

That pelican I had seen landing earlier was engulfed in flames, which were consuming everything within that particular landing pad…including about twenty or so black-armored Spec Ops Elites.

How they got ahold of that pelican, I'll never know. They must have captured it somehow right after the _Autumn_ went nose-down. But that raised the question of how they were able to get past our air defenses, or how-

I shook my head rapidly, dispelling these distracting thoughts. It didn't matter _how_ Covies got into Alpha Base; all that mattered was that they were here now. And we had to clean up the mess they're making.

The Spec Ops Elites had all been disguised by active camouflage, but being on fire kind of…short-circuited the whole thing.

With the Elites now reduced to little more than screaming, running torches, it was significantly easier for us to hose them down with lead.

We arrived for the butt-end of the firefight, helping the dazed first responders mop up the last of the burning Covies. The burning pelican's fuel tanks soon detonated, adding to the firestorm that was already this landing pad.

The Covenant had designed small barriers around each of their landing pads in case of fuel spills; they worked too well. They stopped the burning fuel from hitting any of the other landing pads, essentially protecting the other pelicans while remaining pooled up enough to turn the Elite attackers into torches while we put them out of their misery.

The Covies didn't deserve quick ends, though; they deserved to burn for months without dying. But letting them go like that would make a big mess, and Helljumpers don't make messes.

After another minute, the weaponsfire fell silent and teams of marines began dousing the flames. Just because that burning fuel was contained didn't mean we wanted a huge fucking bonfire burning right near the rest of our birds.

The sun dipped down below whatever Halo's equivalent for a western horizon was. As the daylight began to diminish, the last of the roaring fire was finally put out. We weren't out of the woods yet, however.

The alarm continued to blare as Wellsley accessed all of our COM channels and informed us that the _real_ assault force was only five minutes out. This clusterfuck had just been the appetizer.

"Can't catch a bloody break, today, can we?" Celt laughed almost maniacally as he slapped a fresh magazine into his rifle.

"You have no idea…" I muttered.

As Wellsley had indicated, five minutes later a formation of six Spirit dropships appeared in the distance, closing in rapidly. I did the math, taking into account the capacity of one of those enemy dropships and multiplying it by six. The number of enemy troops that would be deployed would be a large one.

"_Here they come, boys!_" I could hear Major Silva roaring from elsewhere on the airstrip. "_Let's greet 'em like a proper welcoming committee should!_"

Many Helljumpers and marines shouted the customary _oo-rah_ in response to Silva's shout.

As the spirits closed in on our position, one of the autocannons—presumably controlled by Wellsley—opened fire, shredding the lead spirit dropship. The autocannon only had a chance to take out that first spirit, however. The other five were able to duck in past Wellsley's line of fire and begin unloading troops.

Helljumpers, marines, and sailors alike rushed to the trenches that surrounded Alpha Base, grabbing whatever weapons they could. I moved to join them with my squadmates, but I was stopped midway by Major Silva.

"_Gunnery Sergeant!_" the battalion commander shouted to me, grabbing hold of my arm. "We can hold down the fort out here; I need you to take your squadmates down into the caves and flush out the Elites!"

"Flush out the _what?_" Pyro exclaimed, lowering his assault rifle.

"A group of the bastards must've gotten off that landing pad before we torched it!" Silva said, talking so fast that he had to keep his profanity to a minimum in order to get his message across quickly. "They killed the techs in the control room and are going on a rampage through the caves! I want them dead ten minutes ago!"

Elites in the caves? My heart leaped into my throat when I realized what was at stake. The infirmary was down in the caves, too.

_Soph_.

"Celt, Pyro, on me!" I barked, already breaking out into one of the fastest sprints I've ever done in my entire life. The three of us hauled ass to the structures around the CP, where we were handed heat-sensitive goggles by a naval chief petty officer.

Active camo's Achilles' Heel was that it didn't mask its heat signature—in fact, it actually _produced_ heat, making it especially visible to thermal imaging. If we encountered those Elites, we'd see them clearer than as if they were standing naked on a barren plain in full daylight.

We went down into the caves without a moment's hesitation. There were other fireteams of marines down here jogging through the caves, searching for those Elites. We didn't encounter any of them, though; they were off searching other areas of the caves.

Wherever those Elites were, they seemed to be releasing any Covie prisoners they came across. This was to be expected, though. I still don't even know why Silva had allowed any prisoners to be taken; if I were in charge, I would have had them all tossed off the edge of the mesa with their arms removed.

We found dead technicians in the tunnel corridors, dead of plasma charges or wounds inflicted by energy swords. "Poor bastards…" Pyro commented as we passed the bodies.

My heart began to race as we neared the infirmary. We could check the rest of the tunnels later, after I made sure the infirmary was secure.

When I burst into the cave that was serving as our infirmary, my first gut reaction was relief. There were no Elites in the room.

But then, like a camera lens shifting focus, I saw the blood spattering the walls and cots. Several of the medics and the wounded were still bleeding out after death, their life essence pooling up all over the floor.

It was like watching a movie in slow motion. My gaze shifted from the blood on the walls to Devereux's cot…and time just stopped.

I saw Athos Patrikos, his hands scarlet and wet, hunched over the motionless form of the only woman I've ever loved. Blood was still flowing from her wounds, dampening the blankets and making Patrikos's arms even more fouled up.

I took a hesitant step forward just as Patrikos was standing back up, an expression of defeat on his face.

"What the bloody fuck happened here?" Celt exclaimed striding into the infirmary behind me.

"Stealth Elites… They came out of nowhere…slaughtered a third of my team, killed most of the wounded…" Patrikos sounded like he had just gone through a circle of Hell with Dante and Virgil. His voice was dazed, quiet, far-off. He continued to speak, but then he must have recognized me despite my helmet, "Oh… Sergeant Garris…there was nothing I could do. I'm so sorr-"

I couldn't hear anything he was saying. I took several more steps forward until I found myself at Soph's side, staring down at her face. It was curious, really…by looking at her face, one would think that she was simply sleeping.

Then you look down to the rest of her, and see the blood… No, this was one nap Sophia Devereux would not be waking up from.

I dropped to my knees and grasped her hand. A lump started to swell in my throat, but I was otherwise silent. I remained there for at least a full minute, motionless as Devereux herself. My mind had gone blank; there was no sadness, no shock, no sorrow…nothing at all. Just like the new void in my life that had just opened up, threatening to tear through my soul and consume everything else.

Numbness. Blankness. Void. Abyss.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and someone—Celt, I think—said my name. Right then, everything changed.

Everything I've endured over the years, every loss, every wound, every blow…it was like taking a thunderstorm and compressing it, shoving it into a small bottle. And now, as I heard my name, as I gazed at Sophia Devereux's dead body…the bottle shattered.

Rage tore through me; murderous, blind rage. Without another word, I picked up my MA5B and left the infirmary. Time had slowed down for me before, but now it sped up. I could hear nothing but my heart thumping in my chest and blood rushing through my ears.

I found myself outside. Plasmafire lit up the night, cutting streaks through the darkness. I was faintly aware of my two squadmates on either side of me as I sprinted back to Alpha Base's perimeter defenses.

There were loud explosions going off when I arrived. They must have been the two scorpion tanks we had entrenched earlier, but I paid them no heed. Eventually, the volleys died down, allowing the Helljumpers and marines to advance and finish off the survivors themselves.

The Covies were already retreating. They probably lost their leader, otherwise they wouldn't have dared go in any direction other than straight at us.

I grew accustomed to the sound and feel of my MA5B firing round after round into anything that got in my way. All I could see were flashes of Covie faces and body parts, illuminated for brief instances by the fire spitting out of my assault rifle's barrel. At some point in the firefight, I noticed that I had only one squadmate flanking me, but I thought nothing of it.

I don't know how long we pushed the Covies back. I don't know how many lives I took that night, either, but I don't think the number was a very low one. I also don't know how I didn't even get a scratch, the way I was blindly running and screaming.

The spirit dropships eventually swooped in and picked up the remnants of the Covie assault force.

I didn't stop running. I went all the way to the edge, howling and shouting at the retreating Covie birds. "Where are you going? Don't leave! Don't fucking leave, you fucking cowards; come back and fight! I'll kill every last one of you!"

Someone grabbed me by the shoulder and slapped me across the face, quite effectively shutting me up, even though the slap had technically struck my helmet and not my face.

"Get ahold o' yourself, mate!" Celt was screaming right in my face. "You're actin' like a feckin' Section Eight!"

The slap was enough to drag me back to reality, to a place where Devereux's death suddenly felt much more real. My arms went limp, my MA5B hanging straight down. I let Celt start to walk me back towards Alpha Base.

I learned later that Pyro had taken a plasma overcharge to the chest and neck during the advance. I had such tunnel vision that I hadn't even noticed…but, regardless, it had still happened. After the infirmary, though…his death really didn't hit me all that hard.

There really wasn't all that much left to hit.


	70. V Chapter 70: Distractions

Chapter Seventy: Distractions

**September 21, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "Halo", Unknown Location**

I reached down and removed Lucullus Jackson's dogtags from his boot, rubbing the grime off and studying them for a brief moment. "Goodbye, Pyro," I said to my squadmate's body, which had been placed in a row of the dead from the recent Covie assault.

"We'll have to get them back to Cajun," Celt nodded to the tags, paying his respects as well.

"What do you mean, _get them back to Cajun?_" I grumbled. "He's dead. They're all dead, and _we_ are, too. We have no way off this fucking place...might as well stop postponing the inevitable and put a bullet right in our-"

"Shut the fuck up," Celt snapped. "Just because you may've lost the will to live doesn't mean _I_ have, as well."

"No, there's still one thing left for me," I corrected my last remaining squadmate. "Revenge."

"Killing more Covies won't bring them back, Scar."

"No," I conceded, giving a slight shrug as I slung my MA5B over my shoulder. "No, it won't. But it sure will feel good."

Celt decided to give it a rest. That was probably wise of him; I wasn't exactly in the mood to discuss my inner thoughts at this moment. Later, perhaps…but not now.

Throughout this entire war, I had had some of the most incredible luck. I was a survivor. But now...after all that had just happened in the blink of an eye... Dying in battle didn't really seem so bad, anymore. I would never commit suicide, but I really didn't see myself trying very hard to stay alive in the near future.

Suicide by Covenant? The thought alone almost made me smile, but the muscles I needed to perform the facial expression seemed to be dormant.

I had said a proper goodbye to Devereux only a few minutes ago; her dogtags dangled around my neck along with my own. I paid my respects only for a brief minute or so; I couldn't bear to look at her bloodied, motionless corpse any longer.

I now found myself in a similar situation as before, albeit on a much bigger level; I needed something to do to keep me distracted from myself.

Though it was a major understatement to put it like this, Fate had been extra bitchy to me lately. But now, it seemed to want to throw me a bone in the form of Major Silva.

"Good to see you in one piece, Gunny," the Major greeted me with an informal salute. He then glanced down and noticed Pyro's body, which we had been gathered around. "I'm sorry about your squadmate," he said, his tone of voice instantly becoming more solemn and serious.

"Well, I guess he went out doin' what he loved," Celt sighed. "Still don't make it feel any better, though…"

"Only thing that'll do that is _time,_" Silva agreed. "If you're up to it, I've got a new assignment for you men."

I seized the opportunity of the distraction I had been longing for. "We're up to it," I said quickly.

Major Silva threw me an odd glance, but it vanished almost as fast as it had appeared. "That's what I wanted to hear, Helljumper. To put it simply, we've lost contact with Captain Keyes, as well as the marines who went with him to secure that Covie weapons cache."

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment. Dempsey had been on that op…was I going to have to say goodbye to a third friend, today?

Celt and I made sure we had all our weapons before reporting to the airstrip, where a familiar face was waiting to take us away.

"All aboard, gentlemen!" Lieutenant François Rousseau hollered from the cockpit of Whiskey-142, waving us forward into the troop bay. "We got a bit of a ride ahead of us!"

"Much obliged, Zephyr," Celt gave an over-elaborate thank-you to the pilot, referring to him by his callsign.

"You won't be thanking me in a few hours' time, I warrant," Rousseau grunted as he fired up his bird.

I held onto the side of the bench I was sitting on as Rousseau rose up from the landing pad and began to soar into the sky. The ground fell away, and we were able to see Alpha Base's butte in all its entirety for a minute or so before it fell out of sight. Now all we had to worry about were banshees. Phantoms, too. I hadn't seen very many phantoms lately, but they were definitely out there.

That sudden thought gave me an idea, and I was irked that I hadn't thought of it, before. "What about using a phantom?" I asked.

"Hm?" Celt cocked an eyebrow, throwing me a sidelong glance.

"What about using a phantom to get off this place?" I suggested. "They have slipspace drives, I thought..."

"Slipspace drives which we have no idea how to use," Celt retorted. "And just how exactly were you plannin' ta fit several hundred Helljumpers, regulars, and swabbies into a single dropship?"

"I never said anything about using _one_ dropship."

"_Ta,_ I forgot; the Covies have phantoms just conveniently lyin' around every hilltop by Alpha Base," Celt rolled his eyes. "We'd be lucky if we captured even a single one o' them fuckers."

I gave a light shrug. "It was just an idea."

"A pretty optimistic one, coming from you," Celt remarked.

It was about another five or so minutes before Celt broke the tentative silence once more. We were flying over a wide open plain and heading towards what looked like a thick forest. I observed the thick foliage from the cockpit, leaning over Lieutenant Rousseau's shoulder. I returned to my seat a short while later, when Celt reinitiated our conversations.

"That woman in the infirmary...she was the one in that picture you kept in your old helmet, wasn't she?" the Irishman asked.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I opened my mouth to say something that probably would have come across as nasty, but I was stopped by my own surprise. I found that, even though it had only been a couple of hours, I was actually _alright_ with talking about Devereux. Maybe I didn't want her to become nothing more than a taboo subject, something I refused to even think about. She deserved more than that.

"Yeah, she was," I nodded.

"Seemed like one hell of a girl."

"Yeah...she _was,_" I repeated myself, spitting out that last word like it was something bitter and sour. I was already beginning to loathe the word _was_... All it symbolized were things that once were, but were no longer. Like Devereux. Like Pyro, Virgin, and so many others...

"I know I may come off as an insensitive shite," Celt conceded. "But I think you know as well as I do that that's just me way of staying outta the cuckoo house. Just like I know that you're really not the sarcastic, grim-faced wanker _you_ always used to come off as."

My mouth twitched in irritation. "There a point to all this, Celt?"

"Yeah. You've been livin' with that damned emotional mask too long, mate," Celt said to me. "It isn't healthy to keep everything bottled up like this."

"Oh, believe me," I murmured, "I let everything go during the battle."

"No, ye just got pissed as a fecking hellhound," Celt corrected me. "That isn't what I'm talkin' about."

"Well, why don't you _enlighten_ me, then, out of your own extensive experience?" I snapped, finally tiring of the Irishman's attempts to…well…to do whatever he was trying to do.

"Guinevere Llewelyn."

"What?"

"Guinevere Llewelyn," Celt repeated himself, a corner of his mouth curving up a little bit in a faint grin. "Thickest Welsh accent in the neighborhood, red hair like fire, eyes as green as pine forests, and the knockers of Aphrodite Herself… 'Course, that ain't why I loved her, but they sure as fuck didn't hurt," the Irishman chuckled quietly to himself for a few seconds before getting back to his original topic. "She and I, we were best mates. Grew up together in Belfast, went to school together, enlisted in the Corps at the same time, fought in the same unit…we were inseparable."

I was more inclined to listen, now. Hearing this gave me a surprising revelation; I had fought alongside this man for well over a decade, and yet I still knew so little about him. The same thing applied to my other squadmates, as well…and I'm sure it worked the other way, too; my squadmates didn't know much about _me_.

"What happened to her?" I asked, my tone softening.

"She got disemboweled right in front of me eyes on Arcadia, not long before I joined the Helljumpers," Celt said evenly, his voice remaining neutral. I could tell that he was still affected somewhat by the memories, but he must have learned to suppress them, or deal with them some other way.

"How'd you get through that without self-destructing?" I asked him next.

"Oh, I didn't," Celt replied. "Spent a month under psychiatric evaluation after she died. She bled out in me arms, you see? For a long time after that, I kept on seein' blood on me arms, an' I'd try to scrub it off…washing, scrubbing, rubbing, scratching, _tearing_ at me arms and hands until they bled for real. And even after I returned to the world of the sane, it took me another few years to climb out o' the whiskey bottle, which is always doubly hard for a bloody Mick like me."

"That doesn't help me, much," I grunted, sinking back into my old position.

"No, no, bear with me," Celt refused to give up just yet. "I attempted suicide twice durin' the alcohol stage. First time, I chickened out—thank Christ. An' the second time…I had somethin' of an epiphany."

"And what was that?"

"If you shut the feck up and _listen,_ maybe I'll tell ye," Celt put a finger to his lips, effectively shushing me. "I know you're an Atheist, Scar, an' ye don' believe in an Afterlife, but I want you to be pretendin' that ye do, just for now. Do ye really think your loved ones would be happy if you showed up dead because ye just didn't feel like living, anymore? If there were an Afterlife, and you met them there, what do you think they'd say to ye?"

I said nothing. The truth was that I didn't _need_ to...my silence was answer enough for the Irishman.

Soph _wouldn't_ be happy if I went and got myself killed just because I couldn't deal with the loss. I knew that would sadden her because, had our roles been reversed, I would never have wanted her to die on my account. This new train of thought didn't mean that I no longer wanted to die—I wanted to die more than anything in the world, right now—but it _did_ mean that I wouldn't go and actively pursue it.

No, I was going to fight to the bitter end, and I really hoped I met that end sooner, rather than later. If we lost the war, I'd be dead anyway. If we won—just speculating here, as the likelihood of this actually happening is pretty laughable—I wouldn't know what to do with myself. How does an emotionally, mentally scarred person who has been fighting for the vast majority of his entire life just check in for work at the office every morning?

I remember all those far-fetched dreams and plans Devereux and I had way back when. We wanted to move to a small town in New York—Riverside, it was called. We had seen it advertising benefits and sizable discounts for veterans, including free schooling for children, lowered bills and taxes, as well as many other perks. We wanted to get married once the war was over, settle down, have kids...grow old and fat, sit on rocking chairs out on the porch and smoke pipes as we watched the sun go down...

I know, pretty ridiculous, right? But still...ridiculous or not, people needed dreams, lights in the darkness. Sometimes they could actually come true, but most of the time they didn't. The dreams shared by Devereux and me would never come to pass, now. They were ash. Dust and ash; nothing more.

"You have family?" I asked.

Celt raised an eyebrow, but gave a nod. "_Ta_. I got a sister who lives in Belfast with her children. Her husband's servin' on the _Breath of Winter_ as an engineer."

"What's it like? Having family?"

The Irishman's brow creased in a slight frown as he considered my question. "I...I don't rightly know," he admitted. "Ye might as well ask an African what it be like to have dark skin; he wouldn't be able to answer ye because he's never known anythin' different. And neither have I."

I told Celt of my youth on Harvest—how my mother had left shortly after my birth, how my father had died in a car accident when I was five, my childhood in an orphanage school, and my early teenaged years spent on the streets of Gladsheim. I had lived almost my life without a family. Hell, I hadn't even had any close _friends_ until I met Dempsey in the Harvest Militia, as well as John Carrol, Herb Critchley, and many others.

We traded stories of each others' exploits prior to joining Archangel Squad under the Master Sergeant. I told him of what I went through during the five-year Harvest Campaign, as well as my time with the 9th Force Recon. He told me about his time in another Force Recon battalion throughout the early 2530s.

I was surprised to find myself eagerly participating in the conversation, now. Experiences and stories were just flowing like water through a sieve. I needed this, I realized. Not just to help ease the pain of Devereux's death, but also to get some heavy shit _off_ my chest.

All of our talking actually ended up passing most of the time. I think we had been in the air for around two or so hours, but it had only felt like fifteen to twenty minutes. Lieutenant Rousseau warned us that we had reached our destination.

Celt and I gathered up our gear as we felt the pelican descending. The rear hatch was lowered, allowing the wind and a small amount of rain to whoosh into the troop bay.

"A swamp? A bloody _swamp?_" Celt exclaimed as we descended below the treeline. Sure enough, the ground was brown and marshy. There were thick concentrations of foliage, as well as numerous ponds, lakes, and other bodies of water scattered all over the place.

There were no flies or mosquitos, though—there didn't seem to be any kind of fauna on Halo. In this case, I suppose that was a plus for us.

"Here's your stop, _mes amis!_" Lieutenant Rousseau hollered back to us. "I've got to head back towards Alpha Base; I need to follow a distress signal. Radio in when you're ready for extraction!"

"You got it, Zephyr," Celt replied as we hopped off the dropship and onto the ground.

I looked away as the pelican rose back up and shot off into the sky. I took in my surroundings as the sound of the dropship faded. Halo could really be an eerie place…it was still nighttime, right now, and the absence of any fauna resulted in a completely silent environment—which was highly unusual for a swamp.

When the pelican vanished, the silence was total and complete.


	71. V Chapter 71: Little Swamp of Horrors

Chapter Seventy-One: Little Swamp of Horrors

**September 21, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "Halo", Unknown Location**

"We know where we're going?" Celt asked, drawing his assault rifle in close. "This place gives me the feckin' creeps..."

I had to agree with my squadmate. This swamp looked like any other swamp you might find in the lowlands of Sigma Octanus IV, or in the Bayou regions on Earth...but it was completely silent. It was unnatural; swamps were supposed to be full of life, full of noise. All of that sound was absent, here.

A thick layer of mist eddied and swirled across the mud and water, making it seem as if we were walking on a cloud. The trees loomed overhead, dark and ominous, like stern judges gazing down at a doomed man. I really didn't like it here. I think the only reason the silence of Halo hadn't yet gotten to me is because I'd spent all my time thus far with a battalion of rowdy, _noisy_ ODSTs. Comfort was readily found in the company of others.

But here, with only Celt for company, it was downright unsettling. I couldn't imagine being alone in a place like this...

The warm rain from earlier in the day was still falling as hard as it had been before the Covies had attacked Alpha Base. I guess that gave the otherwise silent swamp a _little_ bit of ambient noise, but not that much.

"Hey, hey! I'm picking up an IFF transponder," Celt exclaimed suddenly. "You see it?"

I called up my VISR and parented the motion tracker to my primary HUD, so that it would show at all times. Sure enough, I could see a yellow blip racing towards our position. "Identify yourself!" I shouted in the direction of the Friendly.

There was no answering shout or COM transmission. The IFF transponder simply raced by our position. Celt and I whipped around, following its path, but we saw nothing. I could have sworn I had heard a kind of skittering noise, but it was probably just my imagination.

Even so...I was starting to get that icy feeling in my gut, and not because of the spookiness of the swamp. It was something deeper than that, something that thirty years of warfare had honed my senses into detecting: unknown danger. The ability to know when something not only wasn't right, but was horribly _wrong_.

"Somethin' isn't right, out here..." Celt murmured.

Good, Celt was feeling it, too. Actually, no; that was _bad_. My instincts weren't infallible, but they were much, _much_ more likely to be accurate when I wasn't the only one having them. Without even knowing it, the two of us had already raised our MA5Bs once again and fallen into a rudimentary ambush formation.

My eyes were moving at the speed of light, flicking from bush to bush, from tree to tree, from ridge to ridge. Everywhere I looked, the darkness of the swamp seemed to press in, even with the light enhancement abilities of the VISR.

"This way," I pointed to a pathway of sorts that wound up a nearby ridge, moving in the direction of the fuzzy beacon left by Captain Keyes's team.

We hiked up the ridge, moving alongside a trickling, algae-filled creek. I had to breathe on my fingers every once in a while to keep them warm. The rain itself was warm rain, but rain was rain. It still chilled anything it touched for a prolonged amount of time. Not for the first time, I was grateful to be wearing proper ODST armor; except for my fingers, the rest of me remained perfectly dry.

There was a sudden burst of gunfire when we reached the top of the ridge, followed by the familiar noise of plasma charges being fired.

Celt and I instantly sank to our haunches, aiming in the direction of the weaponsfire. But by the time we were all the way down, the weaponsfire had ceased, and the silence took hold once more.

"What the fuck?" I grunted, lowering my rifle from my eye a hair and straightening up. My grip didn't relax, however.

"Let's just keep movin', alright?" Celt suggested. His tone of voice was calm as ever, but I knew his ticks too well; his Irish accent thickened considerably when he was spooked.

We made our way across the ridge. Before long, we spotted a structure through the gloom and mist; it looked like a huge capital A, made out of the same material as the alien structures back at Alpha Base. It was still pretty far off, but we were making good headway.

We crossed the rest of the ridge and descended back down into the swampy marshes, our boots making soft sucking noises as they pulled out of the mud.

As we drew nearer to the alien structure, we suddenly came across a group of fleeing grunts. They were unarmed, their arms flailing in the air, squealing pathetically.

Gunfire burst out from somewhere behind them, cutting down two of the grunts. I grinned, recognizing the gunfire; they were from MA5B assault rifles. A quick glance at the small motion tracker in the corner of my HUD showed two more yellow blips; moving objects tagged with friendly IFF transponder signals.

_Marines_.

"Let's go! Friendlies up ahead!" I shouted to Celt, straightening back up and opening fire, hosing another pair of grunts. Celt obliged and finished off the survivors.

We moved past their bullet-riddled corpses and burst out into a clearing around the A-shaped structure, ready to greet our comrades...only to stop short, because the clearing was completely empty. No signs of life anywhere. The IFF transponder signals had vanished.

"Okay, seriously, what the _fuck?_" Celt fumed, his unease just below the surface of his voice. "I didn't sign up to go hikin' through a haunted forest. At least before, we knew what was in store for us... The Covenant don't usually lurk in the shadows."

"Haunted _swamp,_" I corrected my squadmate.

"Go feck yourself, ye arse-brained little..." Celt broke off suddenly, lowering his stance and aiming at something over my shoulder. "Movement! I got movement!"

I swung around, raising my weapons as well. I only caught a flash of movement up on the ridge we had just descended from. It was just a shadowy figure; it was impossible to see what exactly it was, human or Covenant. And just as quickly as I saw it, it vanished into the darkness and mist.

This time, Celt wasn't the only one who swore under his breath. This had gone from odd to unnerving, and now it had just entered _scary_. We found the beacon left by Keyes and his men several hours earlier, abandoned by a clump of bushes.

We were faced now with Covies who seemed to be getting slaughtered by someone—some_thing_ that sure as shit wasn't any of our comrades, and now an MIA force of marines. Odds weren't looking too good for them, I hated to say.

I quickly perished the thought. I refused to accept any notion that Dempsey might be…you know. I've already lost too many friends on this ring world, as well as my future.

"Well, at least we know where they went," Celt declared, gesturing at the A-shaped structure which we had yet to investigate.

The structure itself didn't house any kind of facilities; it was actually an entrance to a corridor of sorts that ran into the depths of the ridge which it was built into. Celt and I checked our weapons and stepped through the entrance, heading down the corridor.

The hall was made of a dull gray alloy, and there were support beams set in the middle of the hallway, forcing us to divert to one side when walking past. Behind that support beam, we found a large heap of the purple Covenant supply and weapons containers.

There were more of them in the central chamber which the corridor led to as well. It seemed that the Elite prisoner captured from the Truth and Reconciliation had been telling the truth…but perhaps not the _whole_ truth. There definitely seemed to be Covenant weapons here…but there had to be a reason why the Covies would send so much shit to one place.

This place was far from Alpha Base, so these weapons weren't being stored for any assault against UNSC forces. They were here for another purpose. And that also led to another question; where were the Covies whom these weapons were meant for? So far, all we'd seen were a few grunts running their asses away from…something.

There was a section of the floor of the central chamber that was see-through. It looked like glass, but it really wasn't; Celt and I were able to walk on it, and it felt as hard as any steel or titanium alloy. I suppose making a kind of metal look transparent would be rather easy for a civilization who was able to build entire worlds.

Below the transparent surface, a shaft stretched down into the gloomy depths. If there was a bottom down there somewhere, I couldn't see it.

As I stood on the 'glass', staring down into the depths, Celt was examining what looked like a console. It was a flat piece of transparent material mounted on two of the pylons set around the see-through floor which I was crouching on. The Irishman muttered something to himself and touched the panel. He gave a surprised grunt when a symbol glowed orange at his touch.

I swore in surprise as well when the floor suddenly lurched under me, throwing me off-balance. I fell over onto my side. When I looked back up, I saw that I was actually sinking; this whole thing was an elevator. "_Celt!_" I hollered to my squadmate, who was still studying the terminal. "Get on here, quick!"

"_Shite,_" Celt swore, seeing the platform falling away from him. He held his MA5B with one hand and leaped into the shaft, landing on the transparent elevator platform with a light thud.

I picked myself up and grabbed my fallen rifle, getting back onto my feet. "Well this is definitely interesting," I remarked, glancing at the walls of the elevator shaft sliding by.

"Could use some elevator music," Celt shrugged, ever the critic.

The lift came to a stop a short distance underground. It wasn't the bottom of the elevator shaft, but the lift would go no further, so it was safe to assume that this was supposed to be our stop.

We stepped off the lift and did a quick sweep through the room to make sure it was clear, which it was. There were more purple Covenant supply containers scattered around the room, and a couple of portable energy shields, but it was devoid of life.

The next chamber was accessed by a small corridor branching off from this room. When we entered that corridor, I quickly activated my helmet's air filter. The corridor was painted luminous blood with the blood of grunts. Their corpses littered the entire area, riddled with lead.

The marines had been through here; that much was obvious.

The next chamber was much larger than any of the previous two were just in. It had two levels—a ground level, which spanned the entire chamber, and an upper tier which ran around the chambers perimeter, which we were currently on.

There were several walkways that formed bridges over the ground floor, connecting opposite sides of the upper tier. There didn't, however, seem to be a way to get down, so Celt and I simply jumped, remembering to bend our knees to absorb the shock of landing. Our armor did the rest.

This large chamber was a fucking bloodbath. It almost looked like the work of a Spartan, and that's saying a lot. There were around two or three dozen Covie bodies down here—jackals and grunts, but no Elites, curiously. We hadn't encountered any Elites, yet.

"Keyes's boys jack up on steroids before comin' here?" Celt chuckled, casting impressed glances at the mess of Covenant dead.

"They had their game on," I agreed, but there was still something nagging at the back of my mind, and I knew that it was gnawing at Celt, too. I couldn't stop thinking about those strange occurrences in the swamp; those shadowy figures, the fleeing Covies…

What had the Covies been fleeing from? At first, we had thought they were running from marines, but we had found no marines anywhere near that entrance to this facility. We were finding signs of them down here, but there had been none on the surface.

Something was terribly wrong, here…but for now, all we could do was press on and find our comrades.

"I got an unlocked door, here," Celt said to me, gesturing at another entrance that branched off to the side. It was illuminated with green lights, which was assumed to mean, as Celt had said, _unlocked_. Celt turned out to be right; the door, which must have run on a motion sensor, parted and hissed open as we approached.

Celt and I made our way through many more corridors and chambers, running across a good deal more dead bodies as we went—again, mostly grunts and jackals. We found no traces of our marines, or of any Elites that would have been commanding the lesser troops, here.

We took our time, not rushing around any corners or through any doorways, but checking to make sure there were never any unpleasant surprises waiting for us.

Unfortunately, the silence of the swamp existed down here, as well. It was actually even worse down here; on the surface, there had still been the sound of rain to fill the void, but down in these labyrinthine corridors, there was absolutely nothing but the sound of your breath and heartbeat. Once or twice, I thought I heard some sort of skittering noise, but it turned out to be nothing every time.

Nothing interesting happened until we reached another large room, also littered with the corpses of lesser Covies. What made this room different was a strange, yellowish-gray substance that was dripping from the ceiling and walls. It pooled up on the floor, too, and it had a pungent odor to it that my air filters were luckily able to mostly dispel, but I could still sense a tinge of the smell every time I took a breath.

"Aren't we s'posed to need a black light to see this?" Celt grunted, nudging some of the thick ooze with the toe of his boot.

"Okay, that's crossing a line, even for you."

We spoke for another minute or so before falling back into silence. I think Celt just needed to hear the sound of our voices. We had been clearing hallway after hallway, chamber after chamber, with absolutely no sound apart from that odd skittering noise we'd heard earlier. We needed to hear something human.

We found our first marine in one of the next hallways. He was slumped against a wall, the back of his head blown off, and a magnum resting in his limp hand.

"That looks an awful lot like suicide," I remarked, eying the blood splatter on the wall behind the dead man.

"And why would he off himself?" Celt asked, arching a hidden eyebrow behind his faceplate.

I gave a shrug. "No idea, but the blood spatters never lie. He shot himself through the mouth."

We grabbed the ammo from the dead marine's pistol and kept moving, glad to be away from the body. Now we had another weight on our minds; what would drive a hardened marine to suicide down here?

We eventually passed through a door that was already wide open. It looked like the thing had been welded shut and locked down, but torn back open again. Celt and I eyed the structure warily as we passed through, finding ourselves in another room with more of that yellowish-gray stuff coating the ceiling.

This was a larger room; there were several ventilation openings set into the ceiling and walls, as well as multiple exits leading into other corridors.

We found our first Elite in this room, too. It was lying facedown on the floor. Based on the patterns of its blood, it looked like it had been dragged and manhandled. Some of the back plates of armor had been torn away, as well, exposing a gaping wound underneath.

"Well, lookie here," Celt nudged the Elite's body with his boot. "Where're all your friends, boyo?"

"That doesn't look like the work of bullets," I observed, studying the hole in the Elite's back.

"A shotgun blast?" Celt suggested.

"It's pretty small for a shotgun blast," I frowned. Sure, the wound would be smaller if the shotgun had been fired at closer range, but for some reason it just didn't _look_ like a shotgun blast. I've seen wounds of all kinds for decades, now, and I knew shotgun blasts when I saw them. Not to say that this _wasn't_ a wound inflicted by a shotgun, but that just wasn't my first thought.

"Look at his blood," I pointed at the indigo smears on the floor by the Elite's body. "Mr. Split-chin would have died instantly from a shotgun blast like that, so how did he end up dragging himself two yards across the floor?"

"I don't know, an' I really don't give a flyin' fuck," Celt growled. He edged his toe under the Elite's body and flipped it over, saying, "Look, if it'll make you happy, I'll _show_ ye the fecking buckshot in the..."

"Oh, _Christ,_" my stomach executed a flipflop as I looked at what had used to be the Elite's chest and neck. I fought down a wave of nausea, trying real hard not to hurl the deviled ham rations that I had eaten earlier today.

"This ain't the work o' humans, Scar," Celt murmured, stepping back and clasping his stomach.

The Elite's insides were a mess. There was a gaping hole where its chest had used to be, and we were able to see pretty much the entire inside of its torso. You would expect to see the usual anatomy—heart, liver, lungs, stomach, etc. etc. What we saw was a fucking mess. Bone fragments, pieces of viscera pushed against the remains of the ribcage...it looked like something had just climbed in there with a whisk and scrambled everything.

Celt swore again and ripped off his helmet, heaving his dinner out onto the floor, no longer able to resist the urges. He emptied his stomach and straightened back up, spitting the residue out of his mouth. He looked at me with baleful eyes as he put his helmet back on. "We might want to be considerin' turnin' back, Scar," the Irishman suggested.

"Not until we find our comrades," I replied. _Not until I find Dempsey_ is what I really meant, but I couldn't actually come out and _say_ that.

Not that it really mattered—our choice was suddenly made for us when the door we had just came through closed, sealing itself shut. Some kind of alarm started to pulse throughout the halls, and we heard that skittering noise again.

"That doesn't sound good..." Celt's gaze was flitting around the room faster than a hummingbird's wings. The noise seemed to be coming from everywhere; it was impossible to pin it down.

If I knew any prayers, I'd sure as fuck be saying them right now; I've known the sound a wraith makes as it fires a mortar shot, the _whump_ of a discharging fuel-rod gun, the shrill screech of a banshee flier, the rhythmic pounding and grunting of a Hunter pair...and for some reason, none of those sounds terrified me quite as much as that soft, innocent skittering noise.

"Movement!_ Movement!_" Celt screeched, leveling his assault rifle towards one of the doors.

I took aim as well, gazing down the ironsights at..._something_. They were small things—probably around a little less than two feet tall and wide... They were balloon-like creatures with numerous, squid-like tentacles propelling them forward. I noticed that they were the exact same color as that disgusting yellowish-green sludge. Several antennae stuck out from where their 'faces' would presumably be. They had clumps of what looked like red feathers at the ends of those feelers; some kind of sensory organ, perhaps.

They made those hissing, skittering sounds as they crawled towards us. Celt and I hesitated at first, as we had never seen anything like this before. I mean, if you saw something you had never seen before, you would hesitate, too! In our case, though, it almost cost us our lives.

One of the balloon creatures circled around as Celt opened fire on the rest of the mob, and it leaped onto the Irishman's back. Celt gave a surprised yelp, which quickly turned to a howl of pain. "Get it off!" he screamed, his brogue thickening to the point of near-incoherency. "Get it the feck offa me!"

I crushed one of the creatures under my boot and seized the thing on Celt's back. It was somewhat slimy and cold to the touch, but I was able to get a purchase and tear it off my squadmate. I held the thing in my hands like a person would hold a cat while being allergic.

The fucking thing then squirmed around and set itself on _me,_ its tentacles snaking around my torso armor, slipping into the cracks.

I wrapped my arms around the wriggler and squeezed with all my might. The balloon creature popped in my face, splattering me with what looked like spores of some kind, which I quickly brushed off. I hefted my MA5B and opened fire on the mob of creatures.

It was interesting; when I hit one, it exploded, but its 'detonation' triggered the similar deaths of all the creatures around it. That saved us on ammunition, as well as...well, our _lives,_ I suppose.

Celt and I had to step back and climb up onto the pylons in the middle of the room in order to avoid getting overwhelmed by the tide, though_ tide_ didn't really do them justice; they were more like a goddamn flood. I popped creature after creature, but there seemed to be no end in sight. Finally, though, after what seemed like an hour but was in reality only two or three minutes, we mopped up the remnants of...whatever those things had been.

I shakily stepped down from the central pylon in the room, taking a few tentative steps towards our open doorway. I cast a baleful glance at the corpse of the Elite, and I now had I good idea how it had died, and what had killed it.

I also knew that my chances of finding Dempsey alive had just dropped almost to zip.


	72. V Chapter 72: Breaking Point

Chapter Seventy-Two: Breaking Point

**September 21, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "Halo", Unknown Location**

Celt banged on the door we had come through, trying to get it open, but it wouldn't budge. "Alright," the Irishman gave a defeated sigh. "We just lost our way back out. We're officially _fucked,_ in case you didn't notice."

"We aren't fucked, yet," I replied. "There're bound to be more lifts throughout this facility…as long as we keep going in a general _up_ direction, we'll get out."

"Where'd ye read that, eh? You have the fecking blueprints to this dump?"

I rolled my eyes heavenward, allowing Celt to vent his emotions. He had nearly been killed by some sort of parasitic alien creature less than five minutes ago; he wasn't exactly level-headed at the moment.

"What the hell happened with that balloon thingy, anyway?" I asked the Irishman, wiping the last vestiges of that yellowish crap off my armor, then making sure my MA5B was reloaded.

"Jumped onto me back, wouldn't let go," Celt rasped, wincing as the wound in his back began to throb. "Then it jabbed me with one of its tentacle things… I could feel it squirming around inside, then you tore it out."

"Wonder what the fuck it was trying to do…" I murmured.

"_That,_" Celt pointed at the mangled corpse of the Elite.

The two of us headed out through one of the open doorways, making our way down the bloodstained corridor. We were running across more and more Covie corpses, with a marine turning up here or there. We didn't encounter anything alive, though.

Then we heard the skittering noise, again. Ventilation panels burst out from the walls, and more of those ballon-like creatures poured out into this corridor. In a couple seconds, we would be up to our balls in the things.

"Fuck it; _run!_" Celt howled, pounding his way down the corridor. I was right behind him. We plowed right through the mess of those creatures, firing almost blindly as we went, popping as many as we could. The ones we missed skittered down the hall after us, or tried to jump us as we blew past them. None of them were able to get a hold on us, though.

We turned several corners and sprinted into the next chamber, where I almost got decapitated by a plasma burst.

"Fucking shitfuck-" I went down swearing my ass off, having missed that burst somehow.

Something gave a deep, throaty growl. I looked up and nearly retched all over again. A monstrosity of decayed flesh, tentacles, and feelers was sprinting towards us from the opposite doorway. It was larger than a man, the same color as the balloon-things, and it held a plasma rifle in one of its 'hands'. It seemed to be unable to aim accurately, which explained why that plasma burst had missed me. Any self-respecting Elite would have made that shot.

Celt and I opened fire on the hissing, growling thing, blowing off chunks of flesh and sludge.

Celt swore again when his assault rifle clacked empty, forcing him to reload. I took up the slack, keeping up the fire on the charging monster. I struck its center of mass, but it just kept on coming.

"The head!" Celt snapped, slapping a fresh mag into his rifle. "Aim for the head!"

"It _has_ no head!_" _I shot back, shifting my aim to the thing's arm. I was right; right where the thing's head should have been was a bulging mass of the yellow-gray goopy shit, from which several feelers—identical to the ones on the little crawling balloon-things—protruded. There was no head to speak of.

My next burst struck the beast's oversized left arm, blowing it clean off. Celt muttered something in a language I couldn't understand and added his firepower to mine. Chunks and body parts were getting blown off the monster, but it still kept right on coming. That is, until Celt accidentally strafed its upper chest; something went _pop_ and the creature suddenly collapsed, lifeless.

Neither of us had time to question how it had happened; we were getting swamped, here. I reloaded as we ran down the length of this corridor and through the next hall. When we reached the next room, I almost ran right over the edge of the tier we were on and onto the ground floor.

It was another room like before; ground level spanning the entire chamber with an upper tier running around the perimeter of the walls. This room's tier, however, did not encompass the entire chamber. Instead, there was a tier stretching from wall to wall on our side of the chamber, and another one on the opposite end. There was nothing connecting the two halves but empty air.

There was some heavy gunfire coming from below, too. On the ground floor, I could see a group of jackals led by a red-armored Elite Major fighting against the yellow-gray creatures. They seemed to be holding out, but our mutual adversary happened to be relentless, so unless they found a way out... Hell, unless _we_ found a way out...

The sound of the creatures pursuing us from behind began to grow louder as they caught up. We were going to have to jump, and hope for the best. Our only other option was to face off against the parasites...not even an option, really. I tensed and took a step forward, ready to jump, but Celt caught me by the shoulder.

"Take a look," he beckoned me over, pointing at some sort of panel set on a stand right on the edge of our tier. A quick glance at the panel was enough to see that it was identical to the one on the surface which Celt had accidentally started the elevator with. They seemed to serve as command consoles of sorts.

"Go ahead and fuck with it; maybe it'll close the door," I said to my squadmate, tightening my grip on my rifle as the first of the small, balloon creatures rounded the corner of the corridor and began making a beeline for us. My stomach dropped down to the region of my knees when I saw several more monsters—the same kind of creature like the one we had just killed earlier—round the corner and join the tide of crawlers. We wouldn't stand a chance against all of them combined in our current location.

Celt pressed several of the symbols on the panel, but none of them closed the door.

"Celt, we gotta..." I started to say, but my voice trailed off as I glanced over my shoulder. A thin beam of bluish light had just sprung into existence, connecting our half of the upper tier to the half on the opposite end of the chamber. Another beam of light appeared next to it, then another, until finally there was a thin bridge of light wide enough for three men to walk across shoulder-to-shoulder. At least, it _looked_ like a bridge.

I crouched down and touched the light. To my surprise, my fingers came into contact with a solid surface. I rapped the light with my knuckles, but it held firm. _Strange_... Strange, but extremely convenient.

I pulled Celt away from the door and onto the light bridge. The Irishman started to give a shout of surprise, which died in his throat when he realized that he wasn't falling into the mess below. "How...?" he started to ask, but I didn't let him finish.

"Just fucking run!" I shouted.

We pounded our way across the bridge of light, sprinting over to the other end of the upper tier. A mob of crawlers and monsters was churning its way across the bridge as well, hot on our heels. The crawlers that were on the fringes of the light bridge sometimes misstepped or were pushed over the edge by others, but the vast majority of them would make it across.

Celt reached the other side of the upper tier first. The first thing he did was to start punching random symbols on the panel. When I got to the other side, he seemed to find the right symbol; the bridge of light began to fade. When it vanished completely, all of the alien creatures on it fell through, scrabbling suddenly on nothing but empty air. Well, all of the creatures but one; one of the larger monstrosities gave a tremendous leap just before the light vanished, flying through the air and landing right in front of us.

The creature growled and brought its whip-like, oversized left arm lashing around, striking me across the chest. Pain blossomed throughout my torso as I was thrown back and slammed into the wall by the force of the blow. _Man,_ those things packed a punch…

Celt shouted something and opened fire, hosing the creature. Bits and pieces of it started flying, splattering the walls with the yellow-gray sludge. The creature tried to whiplash Celt like it did me, but the Irishman dropped to the floor and rolled away.

The creature took a step after Celt, but turned its attention to me, as I was closer. I looked at my assault rifle, but it was lying far out of reach. The amount of time it would take for me to retrieve it was significantly shorter than the amount of time it would take for that monster to crush me, which posed a bit of a problem.

In the span of about a half-second, I remembered Celt shooting that one creature in the chest back in the other chamber. We had been unloading on the thing without any success, but it had suddenly gone down with a short burst to the chest, which implied some kind of weak spot.

I ripped my M6D from its holster, thumbed the safety, and opened fire, aiming for the creature's chest. My first shot had no effect, nor did my second. But my third struck the red, feathery feelers that protruded from its upper chest. A large part of the yellow-gray growth went _pop_ and vanished, including the feelers.

"Aim for the feelers," I said to Celt as I picked myself back up. "Hit 'em there, and down they go."

Celt was only half-listening, though. He was down on his knees, examining the dead beast we had just slain. "This is an Elite, Scar. It's a goddamned _Elite._"

I frowned. "That's impossible." There was no way in hell that the thing rotting on the ground had been a split-chin. Then Celt rolled it over onto its front, and I finally saw that it _did_ have a head, in fact…it had been twisted, contorted, and forced back by the parasite that had been resting in its chest, which was why I hadn't seen it from the front.

It was horribly decomposed and discolored, but I recognized the facial structure and the four limp mandibles. It was definitely an Elite's corpse I was staring at. How it had come to this state, though…that was a whole 'nother story.

"It's those little crawler things," Celt murmured, examining a hole in the dead, decayed Elite's back. "There must be a crawler inside every one o' these things..._they_ be the ones controllin' the bodies, like bloody puppetmasters."

I nodded slowly, seeing the logic. When we killed the two larger creatures, I remembered hearing a _pop_ on both occasions right as they 'died'. That must have been the crawler getting blown up by weaponsfire. "So, you pop the crawler inside, and the whole thing goes down," I finished for my teammate. This was good; there was now a good way to take these larger beasts down. All it would take was a single well-placed shot, and down they went.

Just as we turned to leave, a horrible scream rose up from below. Celt and I peered over the edge of the upper tier and looked down at the raging firefight on the ground floor. The Covies were getting overrun, but that wasn't what held our attention. The red-armored Elite was thrashing about, clawing at its back, its mandibles splayed out wide as it roared.

There was a crawler on its back. Indigo blood splattered the walls as it dug itself in through the split-chin's armor. The Elite fought for another few seconds before suddenly going limp and collapsing onto the ground. Its body continued to twitch, however, as the crawler made it through the armor and burrowed into the Elite's flesh. It vanished into the Elite's corpse, and then the true horror began.

The corpse began to convulse, jerking around like there was electricity going through it. The flesh seemed to decay—turning to a sickly, yellow-green hue. Growths and little tentacles burst out at different points along the Elite's body. With a horrible ripping noise, the Elite's left arm pretty much exploded as a huge, tentacle-like limb emerged from the torso; forming the oversized whip-like extension that I had gotten slammed with earlier.

The corpse barely resembled an Elite, by now; it looked more like a mess of decayed flesh and yellow-gray sludge. Finally, there was a loud _snap,_ and the Elite's head was pushed back over its shoulder as a surge of biomass grew out of its chest. The feelers of the crawler poked through, and the body began to move, picking itself up off the ground, grabbing its fallen plasma rifle, and taking several haphazard steps before opening fire on the surviving jackals.

"So _that's_ how it's done..." I murmured, fighting back a second wave of nausea.

"_Shite_..." Celt breathed, his voice unusually quiet. I think he was probably remembering that crawler I had pulled from his back. He had been a millisecond away from getting turned into a monstrosity. Had I been a bit slower in pulling the parasite off of him...

"I think you owe me a drink," I gave a single chuckle, but there was no real humor behind it.

"I'll get ye _ten_ drinks," Celt replied. "Feck me, I'll just get ye the whole goddamned pub."

"Come on, let's get outta here," I stood up and stepped through the doorway leading to the next corridor, not wanting to see anymore, getting as far away as we could from the cries of the overwhelmed jackals.

We sprinted through several more corridors and chambers until we entered the largest chamber we had come across yet. It was large enough to have five tiers, but there was only the ground floor and a series of light bridges crisscrossing the ceiling. There was a column of cyan light leading up to those light bridges, which seemed to be some sort of gravity lift. It only seemed to go up, however.

The chamber itself was filled with what looked like containment pods, each containing a motionless crawler. There was a lot of other machinery, the purpose of which was beyond my understanding. This room had definitely served some sort of purpose.

I saw crawlers, zombified elites, and what looked like marines who had met the same fate, all firing up at the light bridges. They would jump into the gravilift, ride it all the way up to the top...and then get blasted away. Their remains would fall all the way back down to the floor and smash into sludge.

I glanced up at the top of the grav-lift and my heart skipped a beat when I saw muzzle flashes. There were fucking marines up there!

Celt and I fell back into the hallway and laid low while I tried to contact those marines; no sense in attracting all the creatures in that room while we found out what the fuck was going on.

"This is…uh… Hey, you guys on top of the light bridge," I spoke softly into my throat mic, broadcasting on the universal COM channel. Initially I was going to give my official callsign, _Archangel-One-Seven,_ but then I realized how fucking ridiculous that would be. Who gave a crap about callsigns down here? I highly doubt the crawlers would glean anything useful from knowing my name.

"_Quien eres? Identify yourself!_" I heard a voice with a distinct Mexican accent speak over the COM.

My eyebrows shot up my forehead; I recognized that voice anywhere. "Miguél Esposito, is that you? It's Garris!"

There was a pause, and then, "_Co__ño, Sergeant! It's fucking good to hear your voice, man!_"

"Is anyone left?" I dared ask. It was another one of those questions that I really didn't want to hear the answer to, but I still needed to.

"_I don' think so, Sarge,_" Esposito responded. "_I'm up here with Dempsey, Livingston, and Chang; I'm the only one with a working COM, though, so_—_mierda! Get it off me, man! Get it the fuck off!_" my former comrade suddenly shouted, speaking away from his helmet mic before turning his attention back to me. "_Lo siento, mi amigo, these crawling fuckers are startin' to get lucky! Look, you need to do something for us._"

Celt motioned for me to hurry up. I held up my hand, quelling him. "Yeah, Miguél, what do you need?"

"_This chamber used to be some kind of laboratory, I think, and when all this shit started goin' down it went into some kind of lockdown!_" Esposito quickly explained. "_We can't get the door up here to open, and we can't get back down to the floor because the lift only goes up_. _I can see a blinking yellow panel in the middle of the chamber, and I think that's what you need to hit to unlock our door!_"

"And how the feck are we s'posed to be gettin' through all that shite goin' on in there?" Celt asked, his voice practically dripping with skepticism. His Irish brogue was still at its thickest, the adrenaline rush of running from those crawlers not quite worn off, yet.

"_Who the hell was that?_"

"Don't worry about it," I ignored Esposito's question. "We'll hit that panel for you, but only if you keep our exit clear."

"_Only if we stay alive, you mean?_"

"Well, that's another way of putting it, but yeah," I nodded.

"_Si, comprendo,_" the Mexican chuckled. "_See you up here, Sarge_. _Try not to take too long, aight?_"

"Alright…" I took a deep breath and turned to my squadmate. "You'll be the one to hit that panel."

"Pardon me?"

"Those things, see how they all start going insane every time our boys open fire? They can probably see, but they seem to be sensitive to sound," I observed, an extremely mediocre plan forming in my mind. It was by far one of the stupidest—no, probably _the_ stupidest plan I had ever come up with, and I had come up with some pretty crazy shit during my earlier missions as a sniper.

I told Celt my plan, and he more or less said the same thing. "It's finally happened; you've gone screwy in the head," the Irishman muttered.

"Can you _do_ it?"

"_Ta,_ of course I can do it. You, on the other hand, better start sayin' your prayers."

"Atheist, remember?" I reminded my squadmate.

"Right…just cross your fingers, then."

I crept up to the doorway and crouched down, taking a few deep breaths and slinging my MA5B over my shoulder, pulling out my M6D instead. When I felt ready, I loosed a shot into the midst of the creatures who were attacking the marines' position on the light bridges. The sudden discharge caught the attention of a significant portion of the swarm.

I sprinted into the laboratory-like chamber. I didn't go straight in; I turned to the side when I entered the room and started sprinting along the walls, keeping to the outside perimeter of the chamber. I opened fire on the creatures, taking out a clump of the crawlers with a single shot. That was all you needed to take out a group, really; once one of them blew up, all of its nearby fellows blew up, as well.

My mind didn't go blank, but it did seem to detach itself from all the mayhem around me.

I had always been a fast runner. During my 'childhood' in Gladsheim, I had always been able to outrun thugs on the streets, as well as the occasional cop whenever I resorted to pickpocketing. Running fast was a part of my life, much like organization is part of a clerk's. And now, I put it to one of the best uses; running around a giant room to distract a horrifying, parasitic alien species. Again, it was probably the stupidest idea I had ever come up with, let alone executed.

I nearly didn't make it, too. The crawlers were easy to outrun, but the creatures spawned from a crawler taking control of an Elite or a Human corpse...they were _fast_. It wasn't that they were fast on the feet, or were speedy runners...what they were good at was jumping. They could easily jump the entire width of this room, and that was something I really hadn't anticipated.

A former marine landed in front of me, drawing back its whip-like appendage to strike me, but I took quick aim with my pistol and opened fire, popping the crawler that was lodged in the zombified corpse's chest. The corpse fell like a marionette with its strings cut. I took out several more of the zombified corpses in this manner, but I discovered that this wasn't enough.

Whenever I took out one of the larger creatures, it would fall to the ground, becoming the corpse it had once been. But then another crawler would hop into the corpse's chest cavity and replace the one I had blown away. The corpse would then pick itself back up and rejoin the fight, now controlled by a new crawler. The only surefire way to keep them down would be to render the corpse unusable...which I really wasn't able to do, right now.

What I would give for a flamethrower...

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Celt emerge from the hallway, assault rifle blazing, making a beeline for the blinking yellow panel set on the cluster of consoles in the center of the chamber. Almost all of the larger creatures were gunning for me, so Celt only had to deal with crawlers. Not that they were easy things to deal with, anyway; he nearly got nabbed by the little ticks at least twice. On one occasion, he actually had to draw his combat knife and slice a crawler to ribbons before it was able to leap onto his neck.

I turned my attention back to staying alive. I felled another of the running, crawler-controlled corpses that landed in front of me. As I ran forward, I made sure I stomped on the corpse's chest. I felt a sickening crunch as my boot hit what I assumed was the spine, shattering it. I cast a glance behind my shoulder and watched as another crawler tried to enter the corpse, but nothing happened, this time.

Popping the controlling crawlers was one way to take the running corpses down, but that had proven to only be a temporary measure. The permanent measure was destroying the spinal cord. I'm sure there was a perfectly logical reason or explanation, but I had absolutely zero time to reflect on it.

"_It worked! Hey, that worked, whatever you did!_" Esposito suddenly exclaimed over the COM. Celt must have made it to the panel.

I reloaded my pistol and slid it back into my leg holster before grabbing my assault rifle off my back. I turned around and hosed the flood of crawlers that was still pursuing me. I only did this for a split-second; enough time to get a wide burst into the mob and blow a good-sized dent into their numbers. Not that it really mattered; there were more of them coming from the vents and now from the corridor we had just come from. The zombiefied corpses I had managed to kill, as well as those put down by the marines camping up on the light bridges, were all in the process of reanimation via a new crawler, too.

This was a pretty good time to leave.

I stopped sprinting around the perimeter of the laboratory, ducking as a parasite-infested corpse took a swing at me. Another leaped into my path, but I dodged, leaping over a row of containment fields. A plasma charge hit one of the containment fields and shorted it out, releasing the dormant crawler that had been imprisoned within.

I reached the cyan grav-lift at the same time as Celt. We jumped into the bright blue light together. I got butterflies as the sensation of sudden weightlessness took hold of me, and I found myself rising off the floor and towards the light bridges just below the ceiling of the lab.

A large amount of crawlers and at least five of their larger compatriots were coming up right behind us. The marines were forced to hold their fire so that they didn't hit us. Once we reached the top and were deposited onto the platform of light, however, the storm of gunfire continued.

I remember thinking Dempsey had looked like hammered shit when he had first arrived at Alpha Base after a full night of evading Covenant patrols. Well, he looked like he had been going to church compared to how he looked now; scraped, cut up, bleeding from several wounds, and covered almost head to toe in that yellow-gray shit.

"Nice of you assholes to drop by," my oldest friend rasped as his comrades opened fire on the parasites in the grav-lift. "Please don't tell me you're the entire rescue force."

"We aren't a rescue force at all; we're a bloody reconnaissance force," Celt corrected the other man. "Contact was lost with your group, so the Major sent us in to investigate."

"Yeah, whatever; tell me the story when we're safe in an elevator," Dempsey waved Celt off, changing magazines as his assault rifle clacked empty. "Alright, marines, fall back!"

We accompanied the four marines as they fell back through the now-unlocked doorway. The parasites were surging across the light bridges, hot on our heels. Plasmafire scored the walls as the former Elites made good use of their plasma rifles.

We sprinted down the corridor until we stumbled into a junction. There was good news and bad news; the bad news was that there were dozens more of the parasite arriving from all the other halls that formed this junction. The good news was that, because it seemed to be some sort of nexus in this facility, there was a lift in the center of the chamber.

The zombified corpses howled, as if they knew we were about to slip through their grasp. Tough break for them.

Chang, one of the two unfamiliar marines, reached the lift first. It was the same kind of lift as the one Celt and I had entered this place in; transparent floor, controlled by those thin, glass-like panels. The Asian marine activated the lift the moment he was on. I had to leap up and get helped onto the lift by Esposito by the time I reached it, but if Chang had waited any longer, the parasite would have joined us for the elevator ride.

Now that we were steadily ascending through the elevator shaft with—for now, at least—no nightmarish, parasitic alien creatures to disturb us, we had a chance to take a deep breath and regroup.

"So, who wants to tell us what the fuck happened, here?" I asked.

"That fucking Elite failed to mention that this whole damn place is a containment facility, _that's_ what happened," Dempsey growled. "And it also failed to mention that the Covies here needed all those weapons because _they_ were the shitheads who went and breached it. Then Keyes gets a fucking hard-on for murder and plows us right into this place without proper reconnaissance; by the time we tried to pull back, we were up to our balls in parasites."

"You guys with the Spartan?" Livingston—the other marine whom I didn't know—asked.

"What?" Celt

"A Spartan stormed through here around two hours ago, or so, according to COM chatter," Esposito said as he gathered his gear. "Looking for the Captain, probably...but I doubt he found 'im. _El Capitano_ went in with the advance team, an' _they_ were the first ones to go dark. But that was a while ago...we ain't had contact with anyone else since. The guys who went with the Spartan, they probably got out, but we've been stuck up here this whole time."

"You showed up at a good time, too; we were almost out of ammo," Dempsey added.

"Get ready, boys," Celt murmured, gesturing upwards. We were almost at the top of the shaft.

The lift emerged into a bare room. There was a single purple Covie supply canister in here, but other than that it was empty. But I stopped looking at the room after only two or three seconds, because right then I heard one of the most beautiful noises I've ever heard for a long time; _rain._

Dempsey walked up to the room's single door, making it open. Through the door, we saw the mist and the chaotic landscape of the swamp. We had made it not only to the surface, but to an exit. We gathered our gear and made our way outside, reveling in the feeling of the warm rain pattering on our helmets, armor, and exposed skin.

"Never thought I'd live to see another sky," Dempsey grinned, holding out his hands to catch the raindrops.

"Well, technically it's not a sky you're seeing, just rainclouds-" I started to say, but I was cut off by a discharge of plasmafire. I can still see that moment perfectly in my mind's eye; Dempsey standing there, grinning at me...then the green flash of a plasma overcharge, the hiss of its impact, Dempsey's smile slipping...

My oldest friend went down just as his attacker—a reanimated Elite Minor—leaped from the underbrush, making guttural, unnatural noises.

"Livingston, give him your biofoam!" I heard Esposito shout.

I just stood there, frozen. Frozen as Celt and Chang opened fire at the former Elite, frozen as a hail of red dots appeared on my motion tracker, frozen as a tide of crawlers started to swarm our position. Livingston crouched down over Dempsey, inserting the nozzle of a biofoam canister into the area around the horrible burn inflicted by the plasma overcharge.

Dempsey was still alive, somehow, but he was unconscious. We would have to pick him up and carry him to safety...but in the meantime, those parasites had hell to pay.

I raised my assault rifle and opened fire on the reanimated Elite, helping my comrades take it down. Once again, I lost track of time. My movements became robotic. I was fighting as well as ever, but I wasn't even thinking about my situation.

_Not again_… _Not again_…

That was all that was going through my mind. When I think back on it, I wish he had died from that plasma burst. That would have been a blessing.

Instead, a scream caught my attention. I had been so wrapped up in the fight, in my mind that I hadn't noticed what was going on behind us. To be honest, I wasn't as numb or as horrified as I had been when I stood in Alpha Base's infirmary, watching Doc Patrikos step away from Sophie Devereux's corpse. After taking a blow like that, nothing would ever come close, not even what was happening to my oldest friend.

A lone crawler had gotten around us in the chaos and reached Dempsey's body, gotten its tentacles into his spine... Whether or not my oldest friend was dead when this happened, I don't know. I like to think that he was already dead, that he never had to experience having his body get violated and disintegrated…

The whip-like appendage burst out of Dempsey's left arm, and it struck Livingston in the neck, killing the other marine instantly. My former friend growled and picked himself back up, twitching and convulsing every couple seconds.

Esposito, Chang, and Celt were still busy mopping up the last of the crawlers and parasite-controlled corpses. They were turning around, too, but they wouldn't be able to fend off the thing that had once been my best friend. Not in time.

Former-Dempsey picked up its assault rifle and took aim.

_Bang_.

The sound had come from my own rifle. The first shot took off what had used to be Dempsey's head. Normally, the entire head wouldn't have been blown off, but whatever the parasite did to a body when it took control seemed to…weaken it.

My second shot blew a hole in the creature's chest, and the third one took out the crawler. Dempsey's deformed corpse crumpled to the ground, lying motionless in the rain.

Even as more crawlers skittered towards his motionless form, I stood over what had once been Staff Sergeant Matthew Dempsey, 2nd Squad, 2nd Platoon, Alpha Company, 9th Force Recon Battalion…and I emptied half the magazine into his chest.

He would never be used as a puppet again.

I frowned as I turned away, feeling something weird on my face. It felt _wet_. My first thought was that it was simply the rain, but then I remembered that I was wearing a full helmet with a faceplate, which—among many other uses—kept _out_ the rain.

For the first time since a young, mild-mannered, sixteen-year-old militia recruit stood in an open cargo container twenty-eight years ago, watching a Covenant Battlecruiser burn Gladsheim, his home…I was crying.

"_Thank Christ for reflective faceplates_…" was all I could say.


	73. V Chapter 73: Deal With the Devil

Chapter Seventy-Three: Deal With the Devil

**September 21, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "Halo", Unknown Location**

"Hey, man, you okay?" Esposito asked me as we made our way around another lake.

It had been a while since anyone had spoken. After we got out of the hellhole underground facility, we had fled into the swamp, running our asses off to get away from the parasite. I tried contacting Lieutenant Rousseau, and then Alpha Base itself, but got nothing. COMs seemed to be down…and unless they got back up and running, we were stranded.

Nothing to do for now but keep on moving.

"No, I'm fine," I shrugged. "Well, apart from watching my oldest friend die in one of the worst ways imaginable, and apart from having to fucking _desecrate_ his body to keep it from killing me…apart from that, yeah, I'm just fucking dandy."

I was back to feeling numb. My tears had run for about a minute or so before drying up, and afterwards…afterwards there was nothing. I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience… Not that I was floating around, watching myself, but it didn't feel like I was the one moving my legs, aiming my weapon, turning my head. Even when I spoke just now, I heard my voice, but I didn't hear _me_.

I was too lethargic, too battle-weary, too exhausted to fight, to function right now…so my body seemed to be running on some sort of autopilot.

The parasite was all over this swamp. They weren't as thick out here as they were in the facility, but there were enough to classify the entire swamp as 'infested'. We'd run across a crawler every minute, or so. Most of the time, they wouldn't notice us and would go about their business—whatever their business was. When they _did_ notice us, we paid them in lead for their attention.

We didn't run into many of the infected corpses, which made sense. There had been a lot in the facility because the crawlers there had an entire platoon of marines, plus a garrison of Covenant soldiers to eat for dinner. Out here, in the middle of this swamp, there were no corpses just lying around.

If we weren't careful, though, that would change.

September 21, 2552. A day that would live in infamy. Not for the entire UNSC, I suppose, but for _me_. I've lost a squadmate, I've lost the love of my life, I've lost my future, I've lost my oldest, best friend...but Fate wasn't done with me, yet.

We walked in relative silence for a long time. The darkness brightened as our little part of Halo rotated into the sun's rays. It didn't brighten by much, though; the rainclouds were still out in force. I was only able to keep some semblance of time by looking at my mission clock. A normal clock would have been useless, anyway; I doubted Halo had twenty-four-hour days like Earth, or most of the other colonies.

We had been on this ring world for around a day and a half. I had gotten around an hour of sleep in all that time, and I had had only a ration can of deviled ham to eat. My stomach growled as this thought occurred to me; I was hungry as fuck. I began to regret leaving the rest of my supplies in my cubicle back in Alpha Base.

Maybe it was good that, after all the blows I've been taking, lately, that I was able to worry about something as trivial as hunger pangs.

Regardless, I was just _exhausted_. Mentally, emotionally, and physically. I mean, I've gone without sleep for longer amounts of time than this, but most of the time it was just manning an observation post, or holding a line in a trench; pretty much staying in the same place.

But here, in the span of thirty-six or so hours, we had escaped a burning cruiser, taken a Covenant-held butte, fought off a major Covie counterattack against our position, and now, with all this shit going down in the swamp... All men have their limits, and I was reaching mine. Actually, no; I started to reach mine the moment I walked into that infirmary cave several hours ago.

Dempsey's death...Dempsey's death might have been the straw that broke the camel's back. Of course, I don't think it would affect me, all that much. The limit I had reached wasn't the kind of limit that broke you after you surpassed it. I think it was more of a limit that, when you passed it, rendered you unable to regress to a point _before_ you reached it. It made you numb, hollow, empty.

It kills you, but it doesn't stop your pulse, if you understand what I'm trying to say. And if you _don't_ understand, consider yourself lucky. I hope you'll never have to understand what I mean.

It was a cruel universe we lived in. More often than not, I began to question my survival. Why was I still alive? I'm a middle-aged, alcoholic man who knows nothing but war. I have no family, I have no relationships, I have no future, I have no _life. _If the war were to suddenly end right now, I wouldn't know what to do with myself.

I'm the exact kind of person who was _supposed_ to die in this war, the kind who would have absolutely no contribution to make if I survived. So then why was I still alive, and why were men and women with better, brighter futures _always_ the ones whose names ended up on the KIA lists?

It was a strange kind of limbo, I was in. Yearning for death, but unable to bring it about myself. Silently, I cursed Celt. The Irishman had been the one to dissuade me from suicide when I was thinking about it earlier. The reasons he had given were really good ones, ones that I whole-heartedly agreed with, which was why I would couldn't simply take my own life.

But it had made things so much more complicated... I know, you're probably thinking _why not just let an Elite kill you,_ or something else along those lines. Well, that was the other thing; I had resolved to not actively pursue my death, either. My primary goal was still to kill as many Covenant assholes as I could; the only difference now was that I really wouldn't mind quite as much if I swallowed a plasma bolt in the process.

I think that just because a man wants to die, that doesn't make him suicidal. Suicidal is when he actually goes and considers taking it himself. I wanted to die, but I was leaving it in Fate's hands.

Celt, Esposito, and Chang started making small talk with each other after a while, breaking the silence.

"We know how big this swamp is?" Corporal Chang asked.

"Big enough," Esposito replied.

We could see mountains in the distance. I don't think they were as far away as they looked, but it was really difficult to see through the foliage of the swamp. And then there was the terrain to consider; it wouldn't be a straight shot from here to the mountains; there were lakes, marshes, ridges, and other obstacles that we would have to navigate around.

"With the COM relays down, we might be able to get a signal to Alpha Base from the tops of those mountains," I finally spoke for the first time since we got out of the containment facility, if only to hear the sound of my own voice again. The hope of contacting Alpha Base this far out, mountains or not, was a fool's hope...but it was still something.

"You guys came in here without an extraction?" Esposito arched an eyebrow, surprise clear in his voice.

"No," Celt shook his head. "No, our pilot had to go investigate a distress signal, but he isn't respondin' to us."

"Probably got shot down," Chang surmised. "Covies have been sending more and more of their shit into the air, lately."

It was definitely a possibility. It was a possibility that Lieutenant Rousseau had gone to find the marines sending out the distress signal and ended up getting shot down. If that were the case, getting to those mountains were our only chance at survival. Never mind the parasite; we'd starve to death out here if we couldn't contact Alpha Base.

The next hour was rather uneventful, but only that next hour. The uneventfulness ended when we heard plasmafire nearby. If there were zombified Elites out here shooting at something, that probably meant-

"Marines?" Celt suggested, hearing the plasmafire as well.

"There's no return fire, man," Esposito didn't sound convinced.

"Well, what else could the parasite things be shooting at?" I asked. "Not grunts; they don't use plasma rifles. Neither do jackals. And all the Elites are dead; the parasite ate 'em all up."

"It couldn't hurt to check," Chang shrugged.

"We're low on ammo, anyway," Esposito added. "What say we go pop the zombies and grab their guns, eh? Won't last us forever, but they'll last a bit longer than what we already got."

We split up. Celt and Esposito stalked off into the underbrush, hoping to approach the plasmafire from another angle. They were basically a glorified reserve force.

I drew my M6D and gave Corporal Chang a single nod. We raised our weapons and headed into the underbrush towards the sound of the plasmafire. Before long, we could see the flashes of the energy weapons against the mist.

Chang and I went low, which slowed us down a bit, but the going was a lot quieter.

When we reached the source of the commotion, I saw a live, white-armored Elite nearly drowning in a sea of crawlers. Its plasma rifle—no, it was actually a plasma _repeater_—was blazing away, cutting swathes through the onslaught of the parasite.

Chang and I watched in fascination as the Elite fought against the creatures. We would end up killing whoever was left, so we might as well let them duke it out. But still…that Elite was one hell of a fighter.

Eventually, its plasma repeater hissed empty, and its power source was ejected. The Ultra tossed away the useless weapon and drew its energy blade, roaring with fury as it slashed at the attacking parasite. Its movements were fluid, graceful even…almost like it was performing some kind of dance.

But eventually, despite the Ultra's best efforts, a crawler managed to latch onto its back. The Elite howled again as its shields went down, and it seemed to prepare itself for death.

Suddenly, a shot rang out, and the crawler that was about to infect the Ultra was blown to ribbons.

That was me. I had broken cover, taken aim, and shot the crawler off the Elite's back myself. I then switched back to my MA5B and hosed the remainder of the attacking crawlers, popping most of them. Lead worked a lot better than plasma, in this situation.

I've bragged about my skill as a runner, but that's not the only thing I'm good at. My other virtue is a really good memory. This helped when I was a squad leader back when I was still part of the 9th Force Recon; I was able to remember names almost as soon as I met a new person. That was always a good quality for a sergeant to have; men and women tended to follow their leaders better when their names and faces were remembered. It made them feel like human beings. I never, ever forgot a face.

Sometimes a face can get hazy, over the years, but I never fully forgot one. This applied to Elites, as well; as I watched the Ultra fight, waiting for it to die, I noticed something peculiar about its face.

My mind instantly flashed back fifteen years to Verus III, to that forest where I had been cornered by that Elite Major. After an exhausting hand-to-hand fight—though it was less of an actual fight and more the Major beating the shit out of me—it had had be in its sights…but then it lowered its plasma rifle. It spared my useless life.

I never forgot a face.

There were more scars, and the armor was now white...but the half-missing lower-left mandible hadn't changed one bit.

"Sarge, behind you!" Chang started to shout, but I couldn't hear the rest of what he was going to say. Something struck me in the back, right between the shoulder-blades. I was propelled forward several steps and knocked down to my knees.

Before I could even react, an arm covered with blue armor had wrapped around my throat and lifted me off the ground. Something warm and metallic was pressed into the side of my head.

A second Elite? Who would've guessed? For some reason, I felt like laughing. I actually _did_ laugh, but silently. No one saw it through my faceplate.

"Put 'im down! Put 'im the feck down!" I heard Celt's distinct voice shouting. My squadmate emerged from the underbrush with Esposito, both of their weapons trained on the Ultra's back. Chang circled around slowly and joined them.

The Ultra calmly deactivated its plasma blade and slotted it onto its hip. My comrades and the Elite Minor holding me started shouting, their voices growling louder and louder, more agitated.

Finally, the Ultra barked a command, and his subordinate fell silent. My comrades continued to shout though, so I told _them_ to shut the fuck up, too. They weren't helping; all I needed was for that Minor to get jumpy.

The Ultra took a few steps forward and eyed me up, almost as if he were studying an object in a museum exhibit. Then, he spoke a single word, in perfect English: "_Why?_"

I tried to speak, but I was beginning to see spots and stars as my airflow was cut off. All that came out was a series of unintelligible grunts and coughs.

The Ultra frowned and said something to the Minor in his native tongue. The Minor said something else in reply. The two Elites went back and forth for a few seconds; it didn't take an expert xenolinguist to see that they were clearly arguing over something—probably me.

Finally, the Minor seemed to cave to its superior, and it released me. I fell to my knees, holding my aching throat as I sucked down gulp after gulp of sweet, blessed air. The Minor still kept its weapon trained on me, though. I wasn't out of the woods, yet.

"You are the first of your kind I have ever seen to help one of _my_ kind," the Elite continued. Its voice was deep and resonant, and its English was nearly flawless…but it just sounded downright unnatural to see it coming from a split-chin's mouth. "And before I grant you a quick, clean death, I would like to know why."

"A quick, clean death, eh?" I raised an eyebrow. "That your way of saying _thank_-_you?_"

"Your attempts at humor do you no favors," the Ultra said coldly. "It is because of you that the Flood is spreading. I have lost many-"

"Are ye feckin' joking?" Celt exploded. "_You_ be the arse-brained, dickless heathens who cracked the lock in the first place! We wouldn't even _be _here if it weren't for-"

"Not helping, Celt!" I snapped. "_Not helping!_ Just trust me on this one! As for you," I turned my attention back to the Ultra. "You've haunted my dreams for over a decade. Every time I close my eyes, I see your face, because _you're_ the reason why I'm standing here, talking to you right now. And _man,_ it really bugs the shit out of me."

"I do not understand you," the Ultra stated.

"What, you really think I saved your sorry hide out of the goodness of my heart?" I let loose another mocking laugh. "If you were any other member of your piece-of-shit species, I would have let the parasite have you for dinner, and I would have enjoyed watching it. But it _wasn't_ any other Elite; it was _you_."

In truth, I was still kind of reeling from the sheer happenstance of my current situation. I couldn't care less about the Minor holding a plasma rifle to the back of my head; it was the whole…you know…meeting _this_ Elite again… The odds of this actually happening were so astronomically low, I don't think there's a word to describe it.

But here we stood.

"I want you to think back, way back, to a world you burned," I said to the Ultra before it got too pissed off for civil conversation. "Your Prophet was killed by a sniper, your unit was sent to kill the ones who did the deed…you fought hand-to-hand with a human in the forest."

The Ultra remained expressionless. "You speak of my greatest shame. How do you-"

I unsealed my helmet and took it off, pointing at the scar on the left side of my face, running from hairline to chin. "You gave that human a little something to remember you by, didn't you?"

A deep, rumbling laugh came from the Ultra's throat, its mandibles quivering. "The Gods have a cruel sense of humor. They send my greatest shame to prevent an honorable passing. A cruel sense of humor, indeed."

"Honorable passing?" my other eyebrow slid up my forehead, joining its partner. "You call having a termite use you as a living flesh suit an 'honorable passing'?"

The Minor holding the plasma rifle on me drew in a sharp breath. "What do you vermin know of honor?"

"What do _you_ split-chin _putos_ know of honor, eh?" Esposito shifted his aim from the Ultra to the Minor. "Burning worlds full of civilians, feeding children to jackals?"

Before the Minor could reply, or before I could tell Esposito to shove a taco in his mouth, we were interrupted by howling. We all glanced in the direction of the ruckus, recognizing the sound.

"Combat forms…" the Minor murmured, adding several more words in his native tongue that probably didn't have light and fluffy translations.

"Looks like you still might get your chance for an honorable passing," I chuckled, putting my helmet back on and sealing it.

"Scar, we need to be gettin' the hell outta here," Celt warned. He was rock-solid as ever under this pressure, but fourteen years of fighting alongside him had shown me what his ticks were. I could tell that he was getting restless.

The Minor said something to the Ultra, pressing his plasma rifle into my neck, but quickly removed it when the Ultra gave him a terse reply.

"Shame or not, filth or not, Human or not, you have done me a service," the Ultra begrudgingly admitted. Stating the obvious, if you ask me, but I was willing to let the Elite run its mouth for a few seconds; just as long as we were on the move before the infected corpses—Combat Forms, the Minor had called them—arrived.

"I wonder how much charge you have left on that rifle," I said to the Minor. "Not a lot, I would guess." I turned back to the Ultra. "The two of you won't last another hour without extra firepower. We, on the other hand, have no way out of this swamp."

The Ultra quivered with laughter once again. "Sangheili and Humans working together. What you suggest is impossible."

"It's not impossible; just highly unlikely," I corrected the Covie. "My whole life has been nothing _but_ a huge collection of unlikelihoods, of beating the odds. My life's been saved by a Spartan, and by you…the top two things people like me hate the most. Now, you just got saved by your…what was it? Your _greatest shame?_ Nothing's impossible. Together, we can get out of this swamp. Or, you boys can go ahead and become skin-suits for the…what did you call them? The Flood?"

The Ultra hesitated. The two Elites conversed with each other in rapid-fire Elitish—I know that's probably not what their language is called, but cut me a break, alright?

The argument between the two aliens escalated until the Minor, in a fit of rage or frustration, stormed over to the nearest tree and put a good-sized dent into the trunk with his fist.

"My brother believes I am acting foolishly," the Ultra gave an unnecessary summary of the argument. "I can't help but agree with him…however, given the circumstances…we seem to share a common enemy. There are more honorable ways to give one's life than becoming a vessel for the Parasite. If I provide you with a way out of this place, my honor-debt to you will be fulfilled."

I gave a faint, mirthless grin, staring the Elite square in the eye. My faceplate was depolarized at the moment, so he was able to see my face as well. "You want me dead really bad, don't you?"

"Fortunately for you, my desire to escape the Parasite is greater than my desire to correct my past mistakes," the Ultra replied.

The howls of the approaching Flood grew louder. We could hear the skittering of the crawlers and the slosh of the 'combat forms' running through the marshes. It was time to leave.

I picked up my assault rifle, which had been lying at my feet this whole time. "Pleasure doing business with you."

I felt numb as I shouldered my MA5B and gestured for the others to lower their weapons and follow. These aliens had killed my home, my friends…my family and future…and now I was working _with_ them.

I have no idea who I am, anymore.


	74. V Chapter 74: Hostilities

Chapter Seventy-Four: Hostilities

**September 21, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "Halo", Unknown Location**

_I hope you know what you're doing_.

That's what's been going through my mind, lately. That little voice in my head asking me if I knew what I was doing. Ironically, I think my head was clearer now than it's ever been; save, perhaps, for two or three other occasions.

The negative emotions had been thrown out with the positive ones. In my numbness, I had lost the capacity to feel happiness, but I had _also_ lost the capacity to feel hatred. That deep-seated, burning animosity towards the Covies…it was gone. Not that I _didn't_ hate them, because I _did_…but I could no longer _feel_ all that anger.

Without that shit clouding my mind, it had been easier to look at those Elites and—instead of seeing murderous Covies who deserved a thousand painful deaths—see a way out of this swamp. It wasn't quite so cut-and-dry with the others, though.

"This shit just ain't right, man," Esposito murmured as we continued to make our way through the swamp. I know he wasn't really arguing with me; I think he was just venting for the sake of venting.

This was to be expected; just because the others might be willing to accept a temporary alliance with the Covenant to get out of this mess…that didn't mean they were going to like it. And no one was forcing them to, either. It was just like any other task you perform as part of the military; you're not expected to like it, but you're expected to _do_ it.

That's what we—even the Elites—were all doing right now. We weren't liking it; we were _doing_ it, no innuendo intended.

The Elites would mutter to each other on occasion, as well. The younger one, the blue-armored Minor, did most of the talking. The Ultra remained silent almost the entire time, speaking only twice, and that was in response to his subordinate. The Minor was probably saying the same things as _us_ in his ranting.

I mean, hell; he nearly knocked down a fucking tree when he learned of our little alliance. We weren't the only ones who had reservations.

The Flood hadn't finished with us. I don't know how they communicated, but they seemed hell-bent on taking us down. There weren't very many more combat forms that we had to deal with, but there were more than enough crawlers for us to work up a sweat taking them out.

My wounds were hurting again. The plasma burns on my lower-right abdomen—given to me by a jackal during the escape from Aszod—still hadn't fully healed. I had never gotten proper medical treatment for them, and the healing had ceased during my time in cryo. I also think I might have gotten a cracked rib or two from when I got smacked by that combat form back in the room with the light bridge.

Now, after all the stress I've been putting my body under, those wounds were beginning to turn the rest of my body against me. I was going to need to rest, soon… Once I got back to Alpha Base, I'd see what Doc Patrikos could do for me.

The Elites were stronger and faster than us. We had to almost jog to keep up with their pace.

"I'm telling you, we should just blow their fucking _maricón_ heads off," Esposito muttered under his breath. "Ain't nothing more than they deserve."

Miguél Esposito had been born and raised on Madrigal, which was glassed back in '28. My hatred had been drowned, but his still burned bright.

"And how exactly do you presume we get back to Alpha Base without them?" I sighed, voicing the one side of the argument that had been tearing through my mind when I first set eyes on those Elites; could they be used to our advantage?

"How do we even know they'll keep to their word?" Chang asked.

"Because they're Elites," I shrugged, taking aim with my MA5B and popping another crawler that was climbing up a nearby tree. "It's what they do. This idiotic honor of theirs is like fucking catnip to them."

"It bloody well _better_ be," Celt didn't sound entirely convinced. "In the end, we need them more than they need us. We've put our lives in the hands of that 'honor' o' theirs."

"If those Elites weren't going to honor their word, they would have attacked us in the clearing," I replied. "No, the Ultra gave his word, and the Minor will not disobey his superior."

"And since when were ye such an expert on the split-chins, Scar, eh?"

"Thirty years of watching them in battle," I replied.

The Minor ran out of plasma for his rifle an hour or so later, forcing him to revert to an energy sword. Lower-ranking Elites never carried swords, so the Minor had probably jacked it from a superior.

With both the Elites using only plasma swords—which also ran on a charge—I had been proven right on one thing; they wouldn't have been able to make it much further without our added firepower. There were simply too many attacking crawlers, and with only melee weapons on hand it was only a matter of time before your luck ran out.

But Celt still had a valid point; though the Elites needed us to get out of the swamp, they could easily fuck us over afterwards and not lose any sleep over it. There was nothing forcing them to assist us after we got out of here; it would actually be easier for them to betray us.

All we had to go on was their word. I would wager my life that this particular Ultra would not renege on our deal, but it was still a pretty hefty risk, and the only reason I wasn't agonizing over it like the others was because September 21st had completely trashed my emotional center.

As we kept moving, Celt's breathing began to become more and more labored. I started wondering if he had a wound of some kind, but when I asked him he said _no_. Later, when it got worse, I checked his vital signs on the TEAMBIO. True to his word, he was perfectly fine, apart from the wounds he sustained from getting attacked by that crawler in the underground facility.

A small pang went through my stomach as I looked at the TEAMBIO, an unexpected twinge of emotion that vanished as quickly as it arrived. I scrolled through the rest of my team, to whom I was still connected on a squad level. It worked by proximity; if your squadmates were too far away, or dead, they wouldn't register.

Pyro and Virgin were both dark, never to return. Cajun, Apache, and the Master Sergeant were all dark as well, though was always a small chance that this wouldn't be permanent. I wondered if I'd ever see any of them again. I then wondered if any of us would make it off this ring world alive, because if I _were_ to see my squadmates again, _that's_ what would need to happen.

I stopped thinking about my lost squadmates and turned my attention back to Celt. "Are you sure nothing's wrong with you, man? You're slowing down-"

Celt took another step and nearly doubled over in pain. "Oh, feck me," he squeaked.

"What is it, what's wrong?" I asked, putting a hand on the Irishman's shoulder to keep him from falling over.

"Hey, _cabrones!_" Esposito shouted up to the two Elites. "Hold up a sec!"

All kinds of profanity were pouring out of Celt's mouth. I smacked the side of his helmet to get his attention back. "Celt! What the fuck happened? Where are you hit?"

"Ye won' believe me if I tell ya what's wrong," the Irishman murmured in between swearing and taking deep, labored breaths. "An' besides, there ain't no time for us to be stoppin' here-"

"_Celt!_ Whatever this is, we need to deal with it. Now. You're slowing us down!"

"_Jaysus_…" Celt took a moment to swear a little bit more, then he straightened up a little and said, "I gotta take a shite."

I blinked. "That's it? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Celt spat something at me in a language I didn't even recognize. He did that, sometimes, when he was really pissed off. The angrier he got, the thicker his Irish brogue became…and if he got angry enough, he would sometimes revert to the actual Irish language, which he rarely ever spoke.

"I ain't talkin' about a sit-on-the-shitter-an'-go-plop shite; I'm talkin' a major, blockin'-up-the-plumbin' shite!" Celt snapped. "I got mild food poisonin' from one o' me rations yesterday, an' I've 'ad the urge ever since! Me guts're gonna feckin' explode if I don' go soon!"

"You've had to go this bad for over a _day?_"

That sent him over the edge, I think.

"I been runnin' around in me armor the whole time, fightin' off the counterattack, and now _these_ bloody monstrosities-" he shot another crawler with a short burst from his rifle- "_When_ in the name o' Mary Mother's un-penetrated twat was I s'posed ta-"

"Just shut the fuck up and _go!_" I pushed him towards a clump of foliage before he could finish his blaspheming. "We'll cover you!"

And that was how we spent the next five or so minutes; covering Celt's ass while he pretty much had a…you know what? Never mind. I think I'd rather take the details to my grave than have it written down in here. Trust me; I'm doing you a favor. The things that came out of his mouth were nearly as foul as what came out the other end; let's leave it at that.

The Irishman's mood lightened considerably, after that episode. I can only imagine what the Elites' opinions of us were _now_. Chang and the Minor had nearly gotten jumped by crawlers while we were waiting for Celt to finish up. I would wager that the things that Minor was muttering to the Ultra probably weren't compliments.

Celt threatened to bury anyone who spoke a word of this, so we traveled in relative silence once more, content to be silently amused at the Irishman's expense. If we made it out alive, this would be one for the memoirs.

I took a swig of water from my canteen. I wasn't going to be able to keep up this pace for much longer, but the Elites would leave us in the dust if I slowed down. My movements became more and more robotic. On more than one occasion, I actually fell half-asleep and my head would snap forward, jerking me back to full awareness.

Nothing to do but keep on walking, and that's what I did. I walked…and I walked…and I walked…into a tree.

"_Fuck,_" I stepped back, instinctively trying to rub my forehead, but I forgot I had my helmet on again, and ended up massaging my faceplate. God _damn,_ I needed a nap.

It was getting dark again by the time we found ourselves stepping out of the swamp. And I mean, literally, _stepping_ out of the swamp. It was almost like someone had drawn a line in the dirt and made it so that the swamp could not expand beyond that line. It just_ ended,_ quickly morphing into the grassy foothills that separated the swamp from the mountains.

"So tell me," I said as I drew up alongside the Ultra, in the mood for some conversation. "Why do you do the things you do?"

The Elite gave a questioning grunt, which was pretty much universal in all languages for _what?_

"You know…the whole 'trying to make us extinct' deal?" I raised an eyebrow. "I was there when this whole thing began, you know. I was there when the Brutes tried to take our world, when they opened fire on us during a diplomatic first contact meeting. Why did you want our planet? What did you want with us?"

"Enough of your lies," the Minor hissed.

"I will be hard-pressed to uphold my honor-debt to you if you sully it with deception," the Ultra growled.

"Lies? What, you mean to tell me you boys _didn't_ show up on our doorstep and start blazing away? You telling me my home _wasn't_ burned, and the first battle of this war _never_ happened? Normally I'd believe you, but the scars on my chest from that battle are still here, so…one of us is definitely lying, and I don't think it's me."

"You are an affront to the Gods, and therefore must be destroyed."

"And who told you that, huh?" I asked. "Did the, uh…_Gods_ tell you that? Or was it your Prophets?"

"Your military invited our Imperial Admiral to that planet for peace negotiations after they slaughtered our pioneer group," the Ultra's voice was deadly quiet. "My sire was a zealot under the Imperial Admiral's command. You vermin are as abhorrent as you are treacherous; his battlegroup was destroyed in a cowardly ambush. No survivors."

"Whoa, whoa, back up a sec; what's this bullshit you're spouting about a pioneer group?" I was tempted to stop the Ultra, but I didn't want to do anything that would lengthen the amount of time between _now_ and the moment I could crawl into my cubicle in Alpha Base and fall asleep. But my curiosity had, for the moment, overcome my weariness. "You call a pack of armed-to-the-teeth Brutes a fucking pioneer group?"

"There were no Brutes at the site of recla-"

"Stop," I held up a hand. Suddenly, an unexpected surge of anger came ripping through. The emotional abyss became filled with magma. "Please, just grow a dick and stuff it in your mouth, okay? I was there. I didn't hear about it from other people, I didn't listen to the propaganda, I didn't learn about it in a briefing; I was fucking _there_. We met with a pack of Brutes—not a pioneer group, or whatever the fuck you called it—and they weren't interested in diplomacy; all they wanted was the planet. Then they started killing us…and then your fuck-mouthed, inbred species took up the slack, and you haven't stopped since. I've got no idea what happened to your fucking daddy and his playmates; but if they died on Harvest when you said, _we_ had nothing to do with it."

"Uh…Scar?" Celt cleared his throat, murmuring so that the Elites couldn't hear. "You wanna ease up on the insults a wee bit? We still kind of…ye know…_need_ them…"

And just like that, the magma drained away, leaving the abyss dark and empty once more. I gave a quiet sigh; that anger had felt so good. _Feeling_ something had felt so good. I wanted to feel that anger again…but it was too late. It was gone.

Now that my mind had cooled down, I was able to think a lot better. If it hadn't been for that, this new thought probably wouldn't have occurred to me. I guess I just really wanted to make these Elites _think,_ now that I had their undivided attention.

"So, why don't you tell me how the Brutes got their own fleets?" I chuckled. "I've had access to a lot of intel on them. Apparently, they never used to be much of a military force for your Prophet buddies. They're not stupid, but let's not fool ourselves here; they're savage, and they can't grasp the concept of tactics. And now suddenly they're off leading entire fleets. I mean, what happened? You guys getting outsourced?"

"If your intention is to make me question our Covenant, the only reward you shall receive is disappointment," the Ultra declared, though his tone of voice had changed ever so slightly. He was unsettled. "I believe we have spoken with each other and tolerated each others' presence long enough. We shall part ways here. Remain hidden behind those boulders," the Elite gestured towards a nearby rock formation that was actually the top of a steep hillside. There were many scattered rocks and boulders for us to take cover behind.

"Our deal was for transportation out of this place after we help you out of the swamp," Chang insisted. "How do we-"

The Ultra rumbled with muted laughter. "What were you expecting? That I would be able to provide you passage on a ship? You would be slaughtered like the vermin you are if you were brought onto one of our phantoms. No, you shall be given a different kind of transportation. Now, if you wish to live to _see_ it, I would humbly recommend hiding behind those rocks within the next ten seconds."

"_Move!_" Celt shouted.

We could already hear the approaching hum of a phantom's engine even before the Ultra finished his sentence.

"I bid you Humans farewell," the Ultra hollered after us. "If and when next we meet, we shall meet as foes."

I hunkered down behind two large boulders that leaned against one another. Chang crouched down right next to me. Celt and Esposito had gone fully prone behind the smaller rocks further on back.

I heard the phantom's engines grow louder and closer until it sounded like it was right on top of us. It remained in place for around thirty seconds, or so…but, thankfully, the dropship quickly pulled up and the sound of its engines grew faint.

We stayed put for a full five minutes, not willing to take chances of _any_ kind. I know, five minutes is kind of unnecessary, but we had just escaped with our lives from that shithole in the swamp, and _that_ had been such a stretch of the odds, that…I couldn't even describe it.

_And not all of us made it out_.

When we broke cover, the phantom and the two Elite survivors were all gone. All that was left on the hilltop was a Spectre. It was a medium-sized, almost triangular vehicle; driver's seat in the front nose of the vehicle, rotating plasma turret nest in the rear, two passenger seats situated on both sides.

The passenger seats were an afterthought, not really meant to be used for an actual combat situation; the only thing protecting an occupant from enemy weaponsfire was a whole lot of empty air.

While passage on an airship would have been much preferable to what I was looking at right now, at least it was still a vehicle. It was better than nothing. Much, _much_ better than nothing. The Ultra had kept to his word, after all. We still knew the location of Alpha Base from our TACMAP; all we would have to do is point that thing in the right direction and gun the engines.

"It really is too bad those split-chin assholes are fucking butchering us," Chang sighed. "They sure do make great allies."

"It was interesting, though," I murmured as I climbed into one of the passenger seats. "Did anyone else hear what that Ultra and I were talking about? I mentioned the Brutes' attack on Harvest in 2525; the first battle in the entire war…and they had no idea what the hell I was talking about."

"You know somethin'? This sounds like pleasant road conversation," Celt hopped into the driver's seat and got the spectre powered up. The anti-grav nodes mounted on the vehicle's underbelly fired up, making it hover around two or so feet off the ground. "So, why don't we save it for when we're on the bloody road! Get the feck up here!"

Esposito pulled himself up onto the plasma turret emplacement and Chang sat in the other passenger seat.

Celt gunned the engines. We had to hold onto something at first as we got used to the sudden acceleration, but after the first few seconds, we ere just fine.

Fine, and home free.

I hope.


	75. V Chapter 75: Grand Theft Phantom

Chapter Seventy-Five: Grand Theft Phantom

**September 22, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "Halo", Unknown Location**

I don't think it's too much of a stretch to say that we were having the time of our lives, right now. If we had a six-pack of beer on hand, weren't about to drop dead from exhaustion, and didn't have to get off a ring world infested with a parasitic species of aliens that was hell-bent on turning us into flesh suits…we'd probably be partying it up like there was no tomorrow.

But we had none of those things, so we settled for making the trip in relative silence. Before long, Chang was slumped against the side of the speeding Covie vehicle, snoring louder than a buzz saw. It wasn't all that bad, though; the hum of the spectre's thrusters dulled it down.

"Wonder what happens when we get back," Esposito murmured as we sped through the night.

"We find a way to get the hell off this place," I replied. "The Major's probably got something in mind, already."

"No, I mean when we get _back_ back," Esposito clarified. "I wonder what it's like, back home…with Reach gone, and all… How many more planets got shat on since we went off the grid?"

The going had been slow, at first. We had to get through a narrow pass in order to traverse the chain of mountains standing in our way, so we weren't able to just lay on the spectre's boosters and speed our way back to Alpha Base. We had to actually _try_ to keep this thing from crashing.

That would be all we needed; surviving the horrors of that goddamn swamp, only to die because we were too reckless with our wheels afterwards. Kind of an anticlimactic end for the likes of us, so it was best to do what we could to avoid it.

Once we were clear of the mountains, though, it was almost a straight shot to Alpha Base. _Almost_ a straight shot; the terrain was still pretty rugged. There were tall hills, ridges, and buttes that we had to take care not to hit.

And even that tentative 'straight shot' was about to have a tiny little detour thrown in. But ultimately, that detour would end up saving our lives in a way that we wouldn't see until later.

"Hey, you guys picking this noise up?" Esposito asked, pulling down his HUD eyepiece from his helmet and squinting into it.

I heard it, too. It was broadcasting on the E-band. I switched to that channel and listened to the transmission.

"Distress signal?" Celt remarked, but he didn't sound too certain. Neither was I; the signal was pretty garbled.

"_Sí,_ that's what it sounds like," Esposito nodded.

"It's gotta be a beacon sending that signal," I observed, listening to the transmission again. "And it must be damaged, otherwise the signal itself would be flawless."

Ultimately, we decided to investigate the distress beacon. It would still be over a day's travel before we reached Alpha Base, and the signal was almost on our path, so it wouldn't be too big of a detour to go off-course and take a look.

The sun was beginning to rise by the time we reached the location of the beacon. It turned out to be a crash site. The burned-out wreck of a pelican dropship rested on a hillside.

Oh, and there was a battle raging at the top of that hill. Almost forgot to mention that small detail.

I couldn't see who was at the top of the hill—it was obscured by rocky crags and boulders—but it was definitely UNSC lead that was being fired down at the Covies, who were trying to advance up the slope.

The twisted remains of two banshees lay at the base of the hill in addition to the pelican, which suggested that the marines holed up at the top had a supply of rockets. It also explained why the two phantoms firing on them wouldn't simply hover overhead and pound them into submission.

The phantoms, obviously not wanting to be subjected to rocketfire, hovered at a safe distance towards ground level, so that the rocket jockeys—if indeed there were any—wouldn't be able to get a shot without exposing him or herself to enemy fire.

The Covies were being really smart about this assault, but they were forgetting one thing, and that was to make sure their perimeters were secure. We would be able to literally walk right into the fight, and there were no sentries or pickets to intercept us.

I suppose such an oversight was somewhat forgivable, _here_ of all places… I mean we really weren't supposed to be here; all the humans on Halo were supposed to be confined to our cushy little butte. But this is war; shit happens in war that you don't expect.

Celt and I stared at the battle, watching the Elites shouting orders, moving from cover to cover, slowly making their way up the slope. But I wasn't really paying attention to the Covies, or even to the marines hiding at the top of the hill.

I was staring at the same thing Celt was staring at. "You thinking what I'm thinking?" I asked him.

"Skinny-dippin' in a lake o' whiskey?"

"Think harder."

"Aye, I think I am," the Irishman nodded after a few seconds' consideration. He fired the engines back up. "Best be holdin' onto somethin', everyone!" he laughed maniacally as he gunned the thrusters.

I barely had time to grasp the handles on both sides of my seat before nearly getting thrown off the spectre by the sudden jump in speed.

I think many of the Covies saw us on our way in, but none of them opened fire. I guess they didn't see that our vehicle was piloted by human scum, or maybe they _did_ and were just too shocked to fire. Either way, plasmafire didn't start ripping our way until we were nearly on top of one of the phantoms.

This phantom was in the process of dropping several of the large, purple supply crates. I don't think this was the first time the marines on that hill clashed with a Covie assault force; they had probably held off repeated assaults all night long.

Now that it was sunrise, the Covenant seemed to be sending in a proper-sized assault force. If they didn't succeed, I would wager that they'd send in armor, next.

We wouldn't let it go that far.

Celt slammed on the brakes as we reached the phantom's position. Though the engines were shut down, the spectre coasted along the ground for several more meters and actually collided with one of the supply canisters.

The Irishman was the first to leap from the vehicle. It was beautiful to watch; he jumped from the driver's seat, hit the ground, leveled out in a perfect somersault, and jumped back onto his feet as he rolled into the indigo beam of the phantom's grav-lift. This is where we wouldn't have succeeded without the spectre; the phantom had no time to react to our sudden arrival when we were cruising along at the Covie vehicle's top speed.

I was right behind him, shouldering my MA5B as weightlessness took hold of my body and drew me up into the dropship's underbelly.

This was actually the fourth time I've ever been inside a phantom dropship. The previous three times, however, were simulations during Helljumper training in the Ural Mountains; we were taught to operate Covie vehicles and weaponry, as well as UNSC equipment.

We were about to see just how much we remembered.

Celt was already in the process of butchering the grunts and pair of jackals who were present in the troop bay.

The only real obstacle was the Elite pilot. The split-chin roared as its shields shimmered from Celt's opening gunfire. It drew a plasma rifle from its hip and returned fire, forcing us to hit the dirt—or rather, hit the metallic floor.

I rolled back to my feet and stepped forward, assault rifle blazing, trying to knock out its shields before it could do too much more damage.

No such luck. It couldn't see me, at first, so it ended up blind-firing in my direction. It worked; several globs of plasma struck me in my stomach and chest. My armor took most of the hits, but the heat burned right through my skin underneath. If it hadn't been for the armor, they would have burned right through to my back.

The Elite shifted fire to Celt and Chang, next. Celt dove away, but Chang got nicked in the shoulder. He went down swearing.

Celt stepped in close, attempting to strike the Elite with the butt of his now-empty assault rifle. I quickly drew my M6D magnum sidearm. The Elite dodged Celt's strike by side-stepping it, and it turned back around, pointing its weapon straight at the Irishman's face.

I squeezed off a shot from my pistol, striking the Elite in the helmet. Its shields absorbed the hit, but no creature—shielded or unshielded—can simply shrug off getting hit by a 12.7x40mm slug; it was bound to ache a little bit.

The Elite was thrown off-balance by the hit, and it never got the chance to stand back up. As it was teetering, Esposito sprinted right towards it, ramming the split-chin with his shoulder. The Elite actually _flew_ several meters before crashing to the floor. It slid the rest of the way and ended up falling out one of the phantom's open sides.

The ship was ours.

"You alright, mate?" Celt extended a hand, helping me to my feet.

"Just burns; that's it," I rasped, getting back onto my feet. Doc Patrikos would have another patient when we got back to Alpha Base, _that_ much was for sure. "Let's fly this thing."

Esposito got Chang back onto his feet, and the two of them manned the plasma turrets on either side of the troop bay.

"Okay, uh…" I frowned at the control panel in front of Celt as the Irishman sat in the pilot's seat. "I'll be honest; I pretty much cheated my way through the phantom simulations during training. I'm pretty rusty."

"Don't worry," Celt waved me off. "This was the one part of the Ural Mountains regimen that I looked _forward_ to…always wanted to fly one o' these things. Now, let's see…ah, nice; the plasma cannon is already warmed up."

Celt placed his hand on a medium-sized, blue sphere located on the right side of the control panel. It glowed cyan to his touch. He rolled it forward.

I was nearly thrown to my feet as the phantom lurched forward. Celt eased back on the sphere and pushed it forward again, this time only a tiny bit. Now, the phantom glided forward more gently, though the movements were still a bit jerky.

I sat at the smaller panel, which was pretty much a glorified weapons control station. From here, I could switch the plasma cannon's standard plasma-shot to the ballistic plasma-shot, and I could swivel and aim the gun. That smaller sphere on the pilot's panel controlled the gun as well, but this panel was much more suited to the task.

"Hit the gravity lift," I ordered him. Celt pressed another icon on the panel, and the indigo beam of light fizzled and vanished. I could hear a faint howl of pain down below; something must have been trying to scale the grav-lift when we cut it off.

"Take us behind the son of a bitch," I kept my gaze glued onto my own viewscreen, which was projecting a feed from the perspective of the plasma cannon. This was much more convenient than the pilot's controls, which had a fixed camera perspective. With this, I could see anything the cannon saw…the drawback, of course, was that it could not see everything at once.

The other phantom was getting wise as we approached, its plasma cannons sending several charges our way, but I had already opened fire.

I placed the reticule on the enemy phantom and pushed the sphere down. The sphere, which had had a soft, blue glow, suddenly became an angry red. I heard that all-too-familiar hiss of our ship's cannon opening fire, sending fat, sizzling globs of plasma lancing into the other dropship.

It felt kind of exhilarating, to suddenly be the one in _command_ of the devastating firepower of a plasma cannon. As we glided past the ailing phantom, I swiveled the cannon around to the right, keeping the phantom in my view. I sank several charges into its aft section, which was the second-weakest point on the ship, other than the underbelly.

With a few more well-aimed charges from my friend Mister Plasma Cannon, the other phantom gave up. It's engines went _kaboom,_ and then the entire ship went into a nosedive. It slammed into the ground, its metal twisting and screeching in one, final, fruitless protest.

The Covies fighting their way up the hill all ceased fire temporarily, their attention snagged by half of their air support going up—or _down, _rather—in flames. Their subsequent realization that the _other_ half of their air support was no longer their air support spurred them back into action, and they started pressing the marines even harder.

I rolled my targeting sphere downwards and shifted the plasma cannon's aim to the hillside. I pressed down on the sphere again and opened fire on the Elites, jackals, and the two Hunter pairs pressing the marines. Twin lines of plasmafire rained down as Chang and Esposito opened up with the smaller plasma turrets mounted on the phantom's open sides.

It was around now that the sheer absurdity of what we were doing right now actually hit me. "Hey, Celt?" I asked as the Irishman began taking us forward towards the hill.

"What?" he tossed me a sidelong glance.

"We're flying a phantom."

"Yeah, I know."

"Celt?"

"What?" the Irishman sighed.

"We're flying a fucking _phantom_."

"Yeah, I noticed," the Irishman rolled his eyes. "Focus, please?"

"Right."

Celt edged us forward until we were hovering over the hilltop. I could actually see the marines, now. There were eight of them, and all of them sported wounds of some kind. One of them was actually lying on the ground, bleeding; another was tending to his wounds.

Celt hit the grav-lift as I stood up and made my way back into the troop bay. The interior of a phantom was much more spacious than that of a pelican; there was even a small engine room in the very aft of the dropship. I had to say; these ships were much nicer.

The circular hole in the floor glowed indigo as the grav-lift beam flared into existence. The marines down below didn't jump into it, though. We couldn't raise them on the COM, so I settled for a more old-fashioned method of catching their attention: shouting.

"Hey, leathernecks!" I bellowed down through the circular entrance. "Yeah, you guys down there! Hop into the grav-lift if you want to live! Or stay down there and die; whatever works for you! Personally, I'd go with Option A on this one!"

That did the trick. With Esposito and Chang providing covering fire with their turrets, the marines below began making their way into the grav-lift. The first one up was a man a few years older than me with iron-gray hair and a bristly mustache.

I blinked in surprise at seeing him out here. "What the hell are you doing here, Doc?"

"We heard a distress beacon," Athos Patrikos said. "I figured I'd be put to better use out here; where there are distress beacons, there are usually wounded."

"What about all the wounded back in Alpha Base?"

"There were no life-threatening cases there, anymore…those stealth Elites slaughtered them all, if you remember."

The wounded marine was the next one to come up the grav-lift. Doc Patrikos moved her down the length of the troop bay and pulled her into the engine room, which was isolated from the rest of the interior, where he continued to treat her. Chang left his post at his turret and staggered into the engine room after the Doc, seeking treatment for his wounded shoulder.

The third one up wasn't a marine at all. I gave a weary wave to Lieutenant François Rousseau, the pilot who was supposed to get us out of the swamp. "Gunny?" a wan grin broke across the young pilot's face when he recognized me. My faceplate was depolarized, so he was able to see my face. "Thank Christ you're alive."

"Can you fly this thing?" I asked the flight Lieutenant. When he nodded _yes,_ I told him to report to the cockpit and relieve Celt. He obeyed and ducked into the cockpit, heading off to exercise his talents. I know the Navy trained its pilots in being able to operate banshees, phantoms, and spirits much more extensively than the crash courses we had gone through in the Ural Mountains ever did.

One by one, the rest of the marines entered the dropship. The last one up was not a marine, either; he was a Helljumper from Silva's battalion. He was missing his helmet, revealing a scarred face with a beard covering the lower half. His stripes identified him as a staff sergeant, but he wasn't familiar to me.

The Staff Sergeant extended a hand to me once he got himself situated. "Pete Stacker, 2nd Platoon, Delta Company. Thanks for the assist, Gunny," he said in a twangy, Texas drawl.

"Don't mention it," I shook the Helljumpers hand. "You boys make yourselves at home; we'll get you back to Alpha Base in no time."

"The sooner, the better," one of the marines murmured.

"You gonna tell me what you boys and girls were doing so far away from Alpha Base?" I asked Staff Sergeant Stacker once he got his shit together, pulling over a supply crate to sit on.

"There was another distress beacon that we picked up at Alpha Base," Stacker explained. "The Major ordered me to put together a squad and investigate. Zephyr flew us in…it led us right to this hill. Turned out the Covies had planted that beacon—they probably got it from another pelican on the _Autumn's_ wreck."

"I think they wanted Zephyr's pelican," one of the marines—an Australian—surmised. "They used one to surprise us the last time around…killed a bunch of medics, the techs manning the control room, those poor blokes in the infirmary…"

"It didn't really work las' time because they grabbed an unknown pelican with an unknown pilot," Stacker continued. "But if they got their filthy claws on _this _bird and forced _Zephyr_ to cover for them… Well, I don't really have to finish that thought, do I?"

"If they wanted the pelican, why'd they shoot it down?" I asked.

"They only disabled it," the Aussie, Private Dubbo, explained. "Didn't do any damage that couldn't be easily fixed. Only reason it got blown to bloody smithereens is because the Hunters hit it with their little shoulder cannons after we bailed."

"What about you fellas?" Stacker turned the spotlight back over to us. "You all look like twice-digested shit. What the hell happened to _you?_"

"I, uh…we…where do I even begin?" I gave a quick summary of our excursions in the swamp. The marines all traded nervous, disbelieving glances at our description of the Flood. I didn't blame them; I'd have trouble believing it myself if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.

"I guess _that's_ why the Chief's doin' what he's doin'…" Stacker murmured. I didn't quite know what he meant, but I didn't ask, either.

Esposito and Chang slept through most of the trip. I tried to do likewise, but I just wasn't able to, yet. Once I got back to my cubicle, though…

It would have taken well over a day to make it to Alpha Base on that spectre, but with Lieutenant Rousseau flying this phantom we made it in less than two hours. My heart actually leaped when the familiar shape of our cozy little butte came into view.

Finally, after everything we'd gone through in the swamp, we were safe. We were back with friends.

"That's odd…" Lieutenant Rousseau murmured.

"Odd? What do you mean odd? I don't like odd," I spoke rapidly, not wanting to entertain the idea of something going _wrong_ with our long-overdue return to Alpha Base.

"No one's responding to my transmissions…" Rousseau said to me.

"Uh…" I frowned. "How will they know we're friendly if they won't answer us?"

"Well that's just it; Wellsley wouldn't allow such an oversight. Even if the COMs were down, he'd at least fire a warning shot from one of the autocannons…but there's nothing."

We came in for a landing and touched down at the airstrip. There was no one there to greet us. No COM transmissions, no warning shots; nothing.

We all hopped out of the phantom's still-open sides and wandered out onto the airstrip. The sailors who normally worked around here were gone. All of the other pelicans were gone, too…

That was when I acknowledged Halo's silence. Halo, lacking any native or foreign fauna, was completely void of sound, save for the noises of the elements. Alpha Base had been one of the few exceptions; a battalion of rowdy Helljumpers and a couple hundred marines had made this butte the loudest place on the entire ring world.

So why was I hearing only more silence here? Because the ones who had made this place the loudest place on Halo were nowhere to be found.

Alpha Base was completely empty.


	76. V Chapter 76: The Duke of Wellsley

Chapter Seventy-Six: The Duke of Wellsley

**September 22, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "Halo", Unknown Location**

"_Hellooo?_" I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted. My voice echoed back to me a few times, but other than that I got no answer. There was no doubt about it; Alpha Base was deserted.

And it wasn't like we were walking in on a massacre, either. There were no corpses littering the area, no destroyed vehicles, no scent of recently-discharged plasmafire.

Everyone was just _gone_. They had picked up and left. But left _where?_

"Okay, this is just downright creepy, man…" Esposito murmured. "Where the fuck is everyone?"

"Aw, shit…" Staff Sergeant Stacker swore as he took in the sight of a deserted Alpha Base. "This wasn't s'posed to happen yet… He's doin' it early! Turn your asses around, people! Get back on that phantom; we gotta leave, and we gotta do it _now!_"

No sooner had the Staff Sergeant spoken did I hear something that almost rendered me catatonic: skittering.

_No. Fucking. WAY._

One of the flat-roofed alien structures nearby; one of its doors was suddenly burst open and a large swarm of those crawlers churned out onto the grass, surging towards us.

Celt practically screamed like a little girl at the sight of the crawlers and was already halfway back to the airstrip when I glanced at him again. I then looked down and was surprised to see my legs moving so fast that they almost blurred; I was already hot on Celt's heels. I had gotten to the point where that very noise seemed to awaken something primal in my mind...the part of my genes that still bore traces from my progenitors; men and women who had lived in fear of predators in a time before metal.

Private Dubbo and Corporal Harland, two of Stacker's boys, were busy hoisting a large crate of rations into the phantom's troop bay.

"What the fuck are you guys doing? We gotta go!" I screamed at them as I climbed into the dropship.

"This here's an entire crate of the deviled ham rations, mate!" Private Dubbo explained. "This is the best ration we have out here; I ain't leavin' it behind for the Flood to desecrate!"

The other marines helped push the crate of rations into the troop bay before climbing in themselves. The last aboard was Doc Patrikos, who came sprinting barely ahead of the swarm of Flood, several bags full of medical supplies tucked under his arms.

Lieutenant Rousseau had the phantom's engines fired up once more by the time we pulled the Doc aboard. The moment Patrikos was in the troop bay, Rousseau gunned the engines and we lifted off. I gripped the side of the phantom, watching the crawlers swarm over the airstrip.

How the hell they had gotten into Alpha Base, I'd never know.

"You want to tell me what the hell's going on, Stacker?" I asked the Helljumper NCO once we were underway. "You know where everyone went, don't you?"

"It's the Master Chief; that Spartan who came here with all of us," Stacker explained. "He's gonna blow the _Autumn's_ reactors."

"Wait, _what?_" Esposito did a classic double-take, overhearing our conversation. "You're joking right? Blowing the reactors like that would-"

"It'd shatter the entire hula hoop, yeah," Stacker nodded. "That's the idea. You boys didn't know about this ahead of time?"

"We were stuck in a swamp all day yesterday, ever since we beat back the attack against Alpha Base two nights ago," I said to the Staff Sergeant. "We're a bit rusty on current events."

"You really don't know, do ya?" Stacker shook his head in disbelief, sitting down on top of the rations crate, adjusting the sergeant's cap on his head. "Well, I don't even know the whole story myself. Apparently, in a nutshell, this place'll kill all the sentient creatures in the galaxy if we hit the _on_ switch, and so—long story short—we decided to blow this whole place up before the Covies can find a way to set it off."

"Then where the hell did Silva take everyone?"

"Originally we were gonna attack the _Truth and Reconciliation_—that grounded Covie cruiser we hit two days ago—later tonight, but it looks like the Major had to move up his plans."

"You're saying our boys captured a fucking Covenant battlecruiser?" Esposito knew Stacker wasn't lying, but the sheer concept of capturing a Covie starship was just so… It had never been done before. Could it really have been done now?

Stacker nodded. "Affirmative. Well, at least that's definitely where he went...no idea if they were actually able to pull it off, though. We've been stuck on that hill all night, so we're as much in the dark as you. I do know that Silva's planning on using the thing to get us off Halo and back home."

"Damn…" Esposito murmured, gesturing at the phantom all around us. "And I thought jacking _this_ from the Covies was gonna be hard…"

I stood back up and ducked into the cockpit, joining Celt and Rousseau. Celt was lounging in the weapons station; Rousseau was doing all of the real work.

I sat down on the floor and rested against the bulkhead, closing my eyes, feeling the almost relaxing hum of the Covie dropship's engines. I wasn't relaxed, yet. I would never be relaxed until I knew we were in the clear. But I wasn't highly-strung at the moment, because I had done all I could do, so far. Right now, our fates were in the hands of Lieutenant Rousseau.

Celt tapped my helmet about half an hour or so later to wake me up. I wasn't asleep, but I had polarized my faceplate earlier, so the Irishman had no way of knowing. But he still got the message across: _Nearly there_.

I yawned and stretched my arms and legs, slowly getting back up to my feet. I frowned as several of my joints ached for a few moments after standing up. The ache vanished a few seconds later, but still…I was getting too old for this.

At my current age, I probably would have been pushed out of the service long ago, during normal, peacetime conditions. In today's situation, though, I could probably keep on fighting until my bones shattered from arthritis. I would probably be able to retire if I wanted to, but I knew that I would never do that.

As I had said before, I don't know what I'd do with myself in the civilian world.

I could see the faint shape of the grounded Covie battlecruiser appearing in the distance.

"Picking up friendly IFF transponder signals," Lieutenant Rousseau gave a wide, relieved grin. "Our boys definitely own that cruiser. I'll begin sending the appropriate transmissions…see if I can get in touch with Wellsley."

"Alrighty, then. Just get us on that sucker before Silva takes it to Slipspace," I said, gripping the back of Rousseau's seat. I gave the young pilot a good clap on the shoulder. "This was some top-notch flying, Lieutenant."

"Please, call me Zephyr," Rousseau chuckled as I ducked back out of the cockpit.

"Alright boys, good news!" I announced to the marines situated in the phantom's troop bay. Doc Patrikos emerged from the engine room to listen, as well. "We're coming up on the _Truth and Reconciliation's_ position, and it's been confirmed that Silva's boys are in control of it."

The marines all broke out into cheers, whooping and hollering. We had all known that Silva was attacking the Covenant cruiser, but we had no way of knowing if he had succeeded. Finding out that he _had_ succeeded meant that not only did we have a safe haven, but there was also a chance for us to leave Halo alive.

Once the celebrations quieted down, I went on. "We'll get into contact with Wellsley and get us docked. Once we're in, you'll report to your old units. Once we get back to UNSC space, we can party and drink our mean, green asses off…but for now, stay focused. Keep your head in the game. We're not out of the woods, yet," I warned the men. But, not wanting to end on a low note, I quickly added, "But step lively once we get to that ship. We're going home, boys. We're going hom-"

I was suddenly interrupted by an explosion of profanity from the cockpit. Celt was really giving a whole new definition to the expression _running one's mouth_. If there was one thing the Irish were good at, other than drinking whiskey, it was using profanity. Frowning once more, I whipped around and hurried back into the cockpit. I was about to ask what the hell was going on, but I didn't even get that far, because the viewscreen was the first thing I saw.

The _Truth and Reconciliation_—which we were barely five kilometers away from—was wobbling in mid-air. Its engines were sputtering, and by the time I arrived in the cockpit to watch, they had died completely.

In the troop bay, Stacker, Patrikos, Esposito, and all the other marines crowded to one side, watching through one of the phantom's open sides, looks of disbelief and horror pasted onto their faces.

The expression on my face was no different, even if no one else could see it. I watched silently, open-mouthed as the Covenant battlecruiser, now without engines, arced downward into a gentle, almost graceful nosedive. It slammed into the ground, and a long series of explosions rippled along its hull.

Many more smaller explosions occurred as the Covie ship tore itself to pieces before they hit something critical. When that happened, the entire ship simply vanished in a massive sun of white and blue flames.

I could actually see the shockwave from the titanic explosion; it stuck our phantom and nearly threw us all to the floor. Luckily, Rousseau was able to keep us in the air.

I was slack-jawed as I stared at the burning wreckage. All of our comrades…every single soldier and sailor that had survived so much to escape Reach…they had been on that ship.

Dead…all dead…

I remember back on Reach, during the push to retake Viery… We had finally captured that Covenant generator complex and cut power to all of the surrounding Covie AA emplacements, allowing two of our frigates to provide us with air support.

Then suddenly, out of the blue, a Covenant supercarrier had de-cloaked and destroyed the UNSC _Grafton,_ the ship which Captain Delucci had been on. The sight of the entire ship suddenly on fire, falling to its death… It had been mind-numbing.

As I thought back on it, I only remembered the sight of the burning ship, the sound of the dry, dusty wind whistling through our battlefield, and the Master Sergeant quietly reciting the Mourner's Kaddish.

Right now, as I watched the _Truth and Reconciliation's_ sad, skeletal remains get consumed by the flames…it was as if everything had gone silent, save the hum of the phantom's engine, and the sound of my own heartbeat. For a moment, I could have sworn I'd heard the Master Sergeant quietly murmuring in Hebrew.

"What…what the hell happened?" I stammered. "_What the hell happened?_"

"There was absolutely no warning," Rousseau's voice sounded a thousand miles away. "No warning…noth-"

The dazed pilot didn't get the chance to finish his sentence, however. He was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat, and then speaking.

"Well, this is certainly a tad bit smaller than that cruiser…" a light, stuffy, somewhat synthetic voice spoke, laced with an upper-class British accent. "Though I must confess that roominess was not running through my logic center in the eighteen-point-six-two microseconds I had to transmit myself to this dropship's systems before the explosions consumed too much of my-"

"Who…_Wellsley?_" Celt exclaimed, smacking his console, as if that would get the AI's attention. Apparently it did.

"Do not mistake my next query for a complaint—were it not for your untimely arrival, I would currently be in a realm of nonexistence—but what am I, and by extension, what are _you_ doing on a Covenant Phantom dropship?" Wellsley asked.

His voice wasn't coming from any speakers or any specific console…it sounded like it was coming from everywhere at once.

The marines in the troop bay recognized the AI's stuffy tones and began demanding explanations.

"We jacked this dropship during a Covie assault on a hill near Alpha Base," I quickly explained. I have no idea how I was capable of coherent speech after witnessing what I had just witnessed, but somehow I managed. "We escaped the swamp where Captain Keyes vanished…the Flood is all over that area, as well as Alpha Base. We barely got out."

"_Mm,_ I suppose your story holds up," Wellsley hummed. After asking for and receiving the names, ranks, and service numbers of everyone on board, he said, "Very well, I believe I have sufficiently ascertained that you are not imposters of any kind. All of you individuals were reported as missing when Major Silva left for the _Truth and Reconciliation_. You must forgive me; while this phantom has an abundance of external cameras and sensors, there are no cameras on the _inside_ of this vessel which I can utilize to see you for myself, so I am forced to go out on a limb of trust with you. In fact, it is a measure of inconceivably good fortune that you acquired a phantom dropship, as they are in possession of slipspace dr-"

"Alright, cut the shit, Wellington," Stacker couldn't restrain himself any longer. After all, he had just seen all of his comrades die. It was understandable that he was a little unstable at the moment. "What the hell happened to the cruiser?"

All Wellsley said in reply was, "When no one else would do the right thing…she did. She killed hundreds to save billions." His voice had softened considerably as he said this, but once he finished, it returned to its old, haughty manner. "But let us focus on the here and now; the _Pillar of Autumn's_ reactors are in the process of undergoing a meltdown, which will result in a massive explosion; powerful enough to quite literally shake this ring world to pieces. I believe it's high time we were leaving. Thank you, Lieutenant Rousseau, but your services are no longer required…"

And just like that, the AI who fancied himself the Duke of Wellington took control of the phantom. There was a slight lurch as we began rapidly gaining altitude. As we passed the cloudline and the air began to become frigid, Wellsley closed and sealed the phantom's open sides, as well as the hole in the floor through which served as the grav-lift's entrance.

Now that we were spaceworthy, Wellsley killed the phantom's thrusters and fired its seldom-used rocket engines.

"You men are in luck, as it just so happens that the design and operation of Covenant equipment falls within my learning parameters," Wellsley informed us as we cleared Halo's atmosphere and entered outer space. The viewscreen was now filled with star-studded black, as well as the purple-blue gas giant which Halo orbited.

After muttering to himself for several minutes, Wellsley announced that he believed he had determined how best to use the slipspace drive. "It's a much more complicated thing than a Shaw-Fujikawa Space/Time Continuum Butcher Knife, you see. It is actually able to make a delicate incision into the slipstream, and then proceeds to almost surgically enlarge the-"

"I don't care about the details, Wellsley," I sighed. "Just do it."

"It is already done," the AI sniffed. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like _muscle-headed ignorant,_ or something along those lines; nothing complimentary to my vast intellect, obviously. I decided to ignore it; I'd let the AI do whatever it wanted, as long as it made the bells and whistles of this Covie ship work properly.

I reached over Celt's shoulder and placed my hand on the control sphere for the plasma cannon, which was still active, and I swiveled it around so that could see behind our ship.

I saw Halo in its entirety. It was almost the exact same view I had been treated to as I fell towards the ring in my ODST drop pod, only Halo was getting smaller now, instead of bigger.

The last thing I saw before the monitor's feed fizzled out into static and snow was a bright, white light flaring up on part of the ring. Then the familiar, soft rushing sound of a slipspace jump enveloped the phantom…and then nothing.

Silence.

"Slipspace jump has been successful," Wellsley informed us. "Plotting course for Sector K-009. I'm afraid we cannot proceed directly to Earth, as that would violate the Cole Protocol, so we shall first make several stops."

"Thank you, Wellsley," I murmured, straightening up and making my way out of the cockpit. "You're a Duke in my book."

"Your mildly witty attempt at dashing, subtly mocking, and slightly condescending humor has been noted," the AI assured me.

I walked back into the troop bay, where the marines had all sat down, resting against the bulkheads. Stacker sat on the Covenant supply crate, his head in his hands. The others simply stared into space—no pun intended.

"What do we do now, Gunny?" Private Dubbo asked, temporarily breaking the silence.

"We wait," I replied. I eyed the crate of rations Dubbo and Harland had hauled aboard back at Alpha Base. At least we wouldn't have to starve to death in the meantime. "I hope you boys and girls like deviled ham."

I was back to my old(ish), numb self. This was part due to the emotional trauma of losing Devereux and Dempsey—the two biggest constants in my life, part due to weariness, and part due to a sort of disbelief at coming to the very doorstep of safety, only to have it snatched away once again.

And now that I had a temporary future once again, now that I knew I would live to see another day…another part of the numbness came from knowing that eventually I would be right back in the thick of things. The possibility that the bloodbath I had been soaked in here would not be my last. The possibility, now that I'm living in the twilight of the Human race, that I would witness its nightfall.

All of these things were sitting in the back of my mind, and yet the only thing I found I was able to think of was wondering if Stacker or any of his subordinates happened to have a deck of cards.

I was in the mood for a little Texas Hold'em.

* * *

**END OF SECTION V**


	77. VI Chapter 77: Fit For Duty

**Section VI: Winter**

* * *

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Fit For Duty

**October 20, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

I looked at the pamphlet that had been sitting on the desk in front of me.

Riverside, New York. Welcoming veterans home from the war.

_The Soldiers' Homes in Riverside provide quality health care services to the UNSC's honorably discharged wartime veterans with non-service connected health problems. The Soldiers' Homes are government-funded suburban homes open to any veterans who are honorably discharged from the armed services. We offer veterans many benefits, including quality hospital care, skilled nursing and long-term care, full-time blah blah blah_…

I tossed the pamphlet back onto the desk. They were nice houses. If I ever did get a house like that, I wouldn't need most of those benefits…but the discounts would certainly be nice.

But it didn't really matter, regardless. I'd probably be better off just getting an apartment, or…

I shook my head. I was doing it, again, doing that thing where I started thinking about what I'd do if there wasn't a war for the survival of Humanity raging right now. I kept forgetting that I would never get the chance to live in a house as a civilian. I would be dead long before that opportunity ever arose.

The door behind the desk opened, and a short, wiry man in a bright floral-pattern shirt entered the room. He also wore an informal military jacket which displayed his rank of Major, though this was more a formality than anything else—he, like members of the medical corps, was given a high rank so that the majority of his patients were under his authority. He held a thin, manila folder, which he put down on the desk.

"You know, Garris, last night I went home and I got very high on some rather expensive peyote," the man announced as he sank into his high-backed swivel-chair, tugging one end of his droopy handlebar mustache.

My only response to that was a single raised eyebrow.

"And just as my dream self was setting foot on top of Mount Vesuvius, I had an epiphany," the man continued. He then frowned slightly and corrected himself. "Well, less of an epiphany, and more of a _resolution_. I decided that I'm not giving up on you quite yet."

"Oh, Simon, that's just wonderful news! You have me nervous, there," I beamed, showing my somewhat-yellowed teeth through my thick, almost bushy red beard. I think that if I never joined the military, and if the Covies never decided to start using our colonies as target practice for their Navy, I could have made a good actor. My smile was pretty convincing.

But my psychiatrist wasn't fooled so easily. In truth, I really wasn't trying to fool him; that had just been some honest, straight-up sarcasm.

"Normally I would ask you to refer to me as _Dr. Flanagan,_ but I will not even bother, today," the man sighed.

"Good call, Simon."

Dr. Flanagan's mouth twitched slightly, but he had no snappy reply for me, anymore. After working with me for two weeks, he had resigned himself to a long, bumpy, probably alcoholic road.

"Why do you continue to fight me on every turn?" Flanagan asked. "The sooner you accept the helping hand I'm offering to you, the sooner you can get out of this place."

"All you have to do is sign off that I'm fit for duty, Doc, and you'll never see me again," I replied. "The question here isn't 'Am I ready to fight?' The real question here is 'Which one of us is more tired of the other?'"

It was Dr. Flanagan's turn to smile. "Perhaps I'm just a glutton for punishment, which would explain why I decided to pursue a career in evaluating grumpy veterans who see me as little more than a plaything. Or perhaps I have to be certain you won't snap in the middle of battle and end up shooting your comrades. It has happened before."

"Well you can rest easy, Simon," I grunted. "No snapping for me."

Dr. Flanagan raised his eyebrows. "I'm almost tempted to believe you. But, you see, your two weeks with me have mostly comprised of you evading all my questions, attempting to engage me in mind-games, and generally trying to turn me into more of an alcoholic than I already am. All the while, you continue to suppress your emotions, view everything with apathy, and come off as an overall prick. You tell me why I should send you back into the world, based on what I've seen from you so far."

"Because if you do, I'll buy you a lollipop."

Dr. Flanagan sighed again, resting his elbows on his desk and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

My brow furrowed in a slight frown. "No lollipop? How about ice cream? Coffee?" When Flanagan didn't respond to any of my subsequent options, I gave a another long, drawn-out sigh and reclined back into my seat. "Alright, then, what would _you_ like me to bribe you with?"

"Garris, if you ever have an epiphany while you're high, just ignore it," Dr. Flanagan chuckled. "I can see I am getting nowhere with my current line of questioning, so I am going to employ a more…visual method. It took me a while to get this information on you, and the timing was just…" Flanagan shook his head slowly to himself before pulling a paper out of the manila folder.

It was actually a photograph, printed out on that glossy photo paper. My heart skipped a beat as I recognized it. It was me and Sophie Devereux huddled up in a wool blanket, laughing and squinty-eyed with fatigue at being woken up. We were both much younger in that picture—in our twenties, actually. It had been taken in a burnt-out shell of a home during our long retreat on Verus III.

It was the same image that I had always kept tucked away in my old helmet.

My fake bravado quickly drained away at the sight of that picture, and Dr. Flanagan definitely noticed, because I saw a spark of interest flare up in his eyes. "Where did you get that?" I asked quietly.

"It was on your ONI file, and I leaped through quite a few hoops to acquire it," Dr. Flanagan explained. "And your reaction right now certainly pieces together a large part of your puzzle. You were in a relationship with this woman…Sophia Devereux?"

"I don't see how this is any of your business, Doc," I folded my arms across my chest, my mouth hardening into a thin line.

"Well, I do. Quite frankly, this may finally be able to help me figure out if you really aren't just a timebomb waiting to explode," Dr. Flanagan retorted. "So unless you want to spend the next five years paying me regular visits, I'd start connecting some dots for me."

I gave another sigh, but I let my arms drop and I straightened up. I'd been making this guy's life a living hell for the past two weeks; maybe I'd throw him a little bone. Make it seem like he was making any progress.

"I don't know what we were," I said to Dr. Flanagan. "There's no term that could really describe what we had. We weren't married, _lovers_ makes it sound like we just saw each other to fuck, and we didn't even call ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend…what we had was so much deeper than that. It was something that neither of us could define…and we never _tried_ to."

"Because you believed giving it a label would change it into something else," Dr. Flanagan interjected. "And why do that when what you already had was working so well?"

"I…yeah, I guess," I gave a slow nod. I didn't like psychiatrists, but this guy was good; I had to give him that.

"But it's not a big stretch to say that you were deeply in love with this woman?" Dr. Flanagan ventured.

_Oh, what the hell_.

"No," I shook my head. "Not a stretch at all."

"The both of you were members of the same battalion, the 9th Force Recon. You left this unit when you volunteered for the ODSTs, but she remained," Dr. Flanagan observed. "Interestingly enough, that entire battalion was listed as MIA before contact was lost with Reach. You were listed as MIA as well. Tell me…how did you get off Reach?"

"I'm afraid I can't discuss that with you."

"I thought not," Dr. Flanagan leaned back into his chair, tapping his chin with a pen. He looked deep in thought. "We lost contact with Reach on the 3rd of September, and you were listed as MIA on the 30th of August. However, you were picked up by the UNSC _Aegis Fate_ in interstellar space on September 29th; you were nowhere near the Epsilon Eridani System, and you were in the company of other veterans of the 9th Force Recon."

I said nothing. The entire battle that had occurred on Halo was known only to a select few. Out of over a thousand men and women who had been on bard the _Pillar of Autumn,_ only a dozen or so had made it off Halo alive, and I just so happened to be one of those dozen. ONI had made it painfully clear that I was to tell _no one_ of what had transpired.

"So, I think the 9th Force Recon made a little pit stop after getting off Reach, and I think _that's_ where most of the battalion died. I'm assuming Sophia Devereux died during this interim, as well?"

I really didn't want to talk about Devereux right now. Hell, I _never_ wanted to talk about what happened to her, but _especially_ not to a fucking psychiatrist who thought he had all the answers.

Nevertheless, my silence seemed to answer Flanagan's question for him. "I thought as much," the psychiatrist nodded. "And I also take it, based on my observations of you when I asked you about your personal life these past two weeks, that you were present for her death, or at least soon after it. This answers a lot of golden questions."

"Glad I could help," I muttered.

"I can't help you," Dr. Flanagan declared, pulling several more sheets of paper out of the manila folder. "With this kind of trauma you've experienced, I can only help you if you _want_ to be helped…and as long as there is a war raging, you are not going to _want_ to be helped."

"Oh, you've done this before," my old, fake smile returned, as well as the syrupy cheeriness I added to my voice for shits and giggles.

Dr. Flanagan signed the papers in front of him before pushing the final one over to me. At the bottom of the paper were two lines; one for Flanagan's signature, the other for mine.

"What is this?" I asked.

"Your release forms," Dr. Flanagan replied. "To be honest, I was ordered to release you, so I would have had to let you go, no matter what…but I couldn't resist taking another stab at you. On the bright side, I'm satisfied that you don't pose a threat to your peers, so I will not recommend anymore psychiatric evaluation until after the war…if that ever happens. Report to the personnel center, and they'll sort you out."

I scrawled my name on the appropriate line, tossed down the pen, and rose from my chair. "Simon, it's been a pleasure," I extended a hand to Dr. Flanagan.

"Oh, blow it out your ass," Flanagan rose from his seat as well and scooped up the paperwork, exiting the room through the door behind his desk.

Though my smile didn't look like it had changed, it had. As I strutted out of Dr. Flanagan's office and made my way down the corridor, it had morphed from a fake, mocking smile to a genuine expression of happiness.

Though this wasn't true happiness; it was simply relief at the prospect of returning to that which is familiar to me.

I took an elevator down to the ground floor, exchanged nods with the secretary at the front desk, and headed outside into the hot, arid Texas outdoors.

Though it was getting close to November—which translated to the middle of autumn in this region of Earth—it still felt like the warm season, here. I certainly wasn't complaining; growing up on Harvest had built up an immunity to sweltering climes. The flipside was that I was especially sensitive to cold weather… Oh, how I _hated_ cold weather…

I walked down Tank Destroyer Boulevard, past several large parking lots. I've been to many cities in my lifetime, but I have to say that Fort Hood, Texas has some of the most interesting names for its streets. Tank Destroyer Boulevard, Hell on Wheels Avenue, Training Road, Old Ironsides Avenue…

But, seeing as it was a city with heavily military background—it had actually served exclusively as a US Army base a few centuries ago, before the formation of the United Earth Government—the use of such names for the roads really wasn't all that surprising. Not much had really changed since those days, apart from the technology, obviously.

It wasn't exclusively an Army base, either; the UNSC Marine Corps shared joint custody of its facilities with the UNSC Army, which is why I was here right now. After our odyssey through interstellar space which Wellsley took us on, we were picked up and debriefed by ONI, and then scattered and sent to different military bases all over the globe.

I know Celt had been sent to Camp Butler in Okinawa, and he had been released three days ago. Miguél Esposito had gone to a military base somewhere near Jerusalem, in Israel. I hadn't heard anything from him, though.

The personnel station was located near the mess hall—a short walk down the boulevard, and then down another, smaller street with a colorfully military name.

The PERSCOM official at the desk asked for my name, rank, service number, and unit. I gave him the first three, but told him my unit was classified. After glancing at the information I had already supplied him, the official gave a satisfied nod.

"Got enough black ink on your CSV here to give the Great Wall of China a new paint job," the officer remarked.

"That's what they always tell me," I put on another smile, just for show.

The PERSCOM official didn't reciprocate. Everyone seemed to be in a permanent somber mood, today; not just me. I mean, I had legit reasons to be a sourpuss, but having everyone _else_ acting just as gloomy…well that was just unusual. Not to mention not as fun.

"Alright, you check out," the official nodded one last time. "I was given orders today to send you out to our base in Souda Bay once you reported in."

"Souda Bay?" I arched an eyebrow, not recognizing the name. "Where's that?"

"The Mediterranean. It's located on Crete, one of the Greek Islands," the PERSCOM official clarified. "I'm assuming your superior will meet you there; my job is only to get you out there. We have a supply transport heading over to England in forty minutes; I'll put you on that, and you can hop a pelican to Greece from there. You'll probably end up leapfrogging your way to Africa, anyway."

My eyebrow sank down to its usual level, and then sank even lower as I frowned at that last statement. "What's this about Africa?" I asked.

"What, you really didn't hear?" the official asked. "The Covenant are here. Reports started pouring in earlier this morning about a fleet of their ships arriving out of nowhere. One of their assault carriers broke through the orbital defenses, and it's burning Kenya as we speak. Why else do you think would your superior order you to be sprung from the nuthouse and get away with it?"


	78. VI Chapter 78: Old Friends

Chapter Seventy-Eight: Old Friends

**October 21, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

Covenant on Earth.

I think we all had always known that this would happen. The way the Covies had been systematically finding and destroying our colonies…it was inevitable that they would find our homeworld.

Even so… Just because we thought it was inevitable didn't mean we'd ever be _ready_ for it. It had always seemed like one of those things that was just further on down the road, something that would never actually come to pass anytime soon.

Almost like the concept of going to college when you're still in grade school; you know it'll happen eventually, but it's so far off in the future that you grow used to it being a distant reality. And then when it actually comes and hits you in the face…you're still just as surprised as you would have been had you not known it was coming at all.

Eh…never mind; I'm starting to ramble, now. But you get the idea.

The cargo jet I was on glided to a stop around 2000 hours. I was several kilometers outside Manchester—this is where I would find a ride to Crete. There was a flight Lieutenant waiting on the tarmac for me as I hopped out of the transport's cargo bay.

"You Gunnery Sergeant Garris?" the pilot asked me as I disembarked.

"Yeah, that's me," I nodded.

"Clive Hanson, 132nd Naval Air Squadron," he extended a hand, and I shook it. "I understand you need a lift to Souda Bay? I'm leaving in two hours; if you need a lift, meet me at the pub before 2200 hours."

"Hell with that," I grunted. "I'll go there now and wait for _you_. I need a drink."

"I like the way you think," the Lieutenant grinned. "I meet up with you later."

I know, you're probably thinking I tore that pub up, but it was actually pretty uneventful. All of the other men in the pub—servicemen and civilians alike—were rather subdued. Couldn't really blame them; finding out that the Covenant was here on Earth was quite a party-killer.

Strangely enough, I didn't feel any different. One might think I'd be angry, panicked, or at least _stressed_…but I wasn't. There was literally nothing to get stressed out over; this was the end. When Harvest went down, I got stressed because I knew the Covies could easily burn many more colonies. When Reach went down, I got stressed because there was now nothing between the Covies and Earth.

Now that they were here, now that they were finally _here_…it really couldn't get any worse. When they won this battle—yes, _when_ they won this battle, Humanity would die. Oh, sure, there would still be people left on the remaining colonies, but they would be living on borrowed time.

Hell, I find it almost refreshing that the Covies are finally here. This was the day we've spent nearly thirty days living in fear of, agonizing over…and now that it was here, there was only one thing we could do: _fight_.

It just made life a lot simpler, in my humble opinion. I'm sure most others would disagree, but they were welcome to their opinions, too. Not many people have been fighting this war since Harvest—my views were largely unique ones. So I kept them to myself.

The two hours flew right by, and before I knew it I was leaving the pub with Clive Hanson. We headed through the town and returned to the military base, heading onto the airstrip.

The Lieutenant's bird was waiting on the tarmac, right—presumably—where he had left it. We both climbed aboard. He sat at the pilot's seat, and I parked myself into the copilot's station, which was behind and to the left of the pilot's chair.

The Lieutenant flipped a few switches, powered up the pelican's engines, and activated its COM system. "Ashworth Control, this is Omega-Five-Two requesting clearance for take-off, over."

"_Acknowledged, Omega-Five-Two, you are clear for take-off,_" the response was. "_Watch your back out there; Covie fliers have been spotted over the Middle East. They're spreading in your direction._"

The pilot gunned the pelican's engines, and we soared up into the sky. He closed the rear hatch when we reached the cloudline and fired the main engines. There was a slight distortion off the nose of the dropship as we broke the sound barrier, but that was it.

The flight from England to Greece took several hours, and I spent most of it sleeping. For the instances during which I was awake, I chatted with the pilot. The thing I asked him the most about was his family—he had a wife and three kids living in the Isle of Man.

Ever since Devereux died, I'd been increasingly interested in families. Don't mistake that for some sort of creepy obsession; just a newfound interest. I don't want to play the lost childhood card again, but I've really never known what it's like to have, or to be part of a family. And now that I know I'll never have one, it's like this big thing I know I've missed out on…but there's not a fucking thing I can do about it. I can't bring back Devereux, or the daughter I never knew who perished on Emerald Cove.

Before I knew it, the pilot was giving his information to the personnel of the military base at Souda Bay. The moonlight sparkled off the waters of the Mediterranean Sea. It looked like something straight out of a painting.

I could see the northern coast of Crete on the horizon. The pilot angled us towards the Akrotiri Peninsula in the northwestern reaches of the island, which was what separated Souda Bay from the rest of the Mediterranean.

The lights of the military base were easily visible in the night. They grew larger and larger, until the buildings to which they were attached became easily visible. The Lieutenant brought us to a smooth landing on the base's airstrip.

"Well, here's our stop," the pilot yawned, killing the pelican's engines and powering down its systems. He stood up and stretched, easing out the kinks, before walking stiffly out into the troop bay.

The rear hatch had opened fully by the time we reached it, allowing us to step outside without hindrance. I parted ways with the pilot, who headed off to rejoin his squadron.

As for me, I headed towards the four men who were waiting for me. I broke out in a wide grin as I jogged towards them; it had been too long since I had seen them last.

Cajun gave a deafening, almost maniacal laugh and sprinted forward, slamming right into my midsection and knocking the wind out of me. He didn't tackle me, though. Instead, he bent down low and stood back up so that I ended up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Y'all ain't never doin' that ta me again, ya hear?" the Louisianan exclaimed. "Goin' MIA on us, makin' us think we're gonna have ta go an' replace half our squad, an' then fuckin' _showin' up_ outta the goddamn blue…"

Cajun kept on ranting for the entire walk to the military base's officer's club. Though officer's clubs were not open to the enlisted, they didn't seem to have any problem with us being there. Well, I guess it was more a desire to avoid antagonizing five rowdy men who happened to bear the flaming skull their arms. Helljumpers weren't the best people to piss off in a bar.

Cajun set me down at one of the tables. Celt slipped off to get a round of beers and returned within a few seconds, holding five large tankards of brew in both hands, setting them down before grabbing a chair.

"It's good to see you again, Scar," the Master Sergeant was grinning as well, which was rare to see from him. He extended a hand across the table, and I shook it, careful to avoid knocking over the glasses.

"Likewise, sir."

"Tonight's a good night for you to come back, too," Apache added. "Commander Angiers gave us leave to hit the drinks tonight…any other night, and you'd be having a bone-dry welcome-back party."

"So you guys also heard about what's going on in Africa?" I asked.

"Aw, who _ain't_ heard 'bout what's goin' on in Africa?" Cajun rolled his eyes, taking another long draught from his glass of beer, wiping the foam out of his horseshoe mustache afterwards. "So the Covies decided to show up an' set fire to some city in Kenya—who the fuck cares? We'll fight 'em when we fight 'em. Till then…ain't nuthin' fer us ta do but make the most outta the last few days or—God forbid—_hours_ of peace we got left."

"Amen," I raised my glass to that, draining it to about halfway.

A silence fell over our table for a minute or so. We gazed at each other over our drinks. Some of the most profound sentiments are the ones that are unsaid.

Finally, the Master Sergeant raised his drink in a toast. "To us," he said. We all echoed our squad leader and clinked our tankards, draining them a little more. When we finished, the Master Sergeant raised his glass again. "And to those of us who aren't sitting at this table."

We were silent for that one, and the drinks we took were significantly longer.

"Celt told us about Pyro," Apache informed me. "I wish we had been there to help…"

I flashed Celt a quick glance, and he understood the question I was silently asking him. "I told 'em everything," the Irishman spoke under his breath so that only the five of us could hear. "But that's off the record."

"Our pieholes're sealed," Cajun mimed locking up his lips and throwing away the key. "Though the shit Celt told us about those Flood doohickeys…" the Louisianan shuddered, and with good cause. "Hope I never meet any o' them things… Scare the shit outta me, an' I ain't never even _seen_ one."

The image of Dempsey's twisted, desecrated corpse staggering towards me flashed through my mind, almost making me drop my beer. "How about we _not_ talk about those things, okay?" I suggested.

"Yeah, alright, I'm sorry," Cajun apologized.

"We getting our numbers replenished?" I asked after my next gulp of brew. My head was beginning to buzz pleasantly as the beer did its dirty work, but I was still alert.

"No such luck," the Master Sergeant shook his head. "PERSCOM's having a hard enough time as it is sorting out and organizing all the personnel on the planet into their normal units; transfers aren't quite so high up on the totem pole. What we are right now is what we'll be for a while."

We finished our beers soon after that. Because the Commander wanted to see us tomorrow, we didn't drink any more—we wouldn't get hangovers from one beer.

"It really is good to have the squad back together," the Master Sergeant grinned as we left the pub and made our way towards our barracks unit.

A smile was on my face as I drifted off to sleep. I was amongst friends, once more.

I had a dark and dreamless sleep, which I really had no problem with. After fighting the Covenant for three decades, and especially after my brush with the nightmarish Flood, my dreams had gotten to be kind of fucked up. I didn't mind not having them, anymore.

When I woke up, it was to a gray morning. Clouds had rolled in from the sea, and it was misting outside. Not hard enough for it to be considered rain, or even a shower, but still noticeable. The other personnel stationed here were roused as well, and were busy reporting to their designated stations. A lot of us were getting shipped elsewhere, today. We'd probably end up heading over to that city in Africa where the Covies were having their fuckfest.

We headed into the Souda Bay base's headquarters facility, where the Master Sergeant led us all into a briefing room in the facility's sub-level. A tall, thin, pale man was waiting for us inside, dressed in a matte black uniform, complete with the all-seeing eye insignia of the Office of Naval Intelligence.

"Commander Angiers, sir," the Master Sergeant sketched a salute to our ONI handler. Ever since Captain Delucci had bought the farm on Reach, Angiers had stepped in to fill the void left by his absence.

"At ease," the Commander returned our salutes, taking his place at the opposite side of the round table in the room. "Have a seat, gentlemen."

I grabbed a seat in between Cajun and the Master Sergeant, getting myself settled in. I didn't get too comfortable, though; this didn't feel like it was going to be a particularly long briefing.

"I'd like to start by once again welcoming Scar and Celt back into our ranks," Angiers gave me a nod. "Pyro and Virgin will be remembered...and I'm glad they're the only ones."

"Yes, sir," Celt and I spoke in unison.

"Now, let's get down to business. This will be a very short briefing, as we do not have an infinite supply of time," Angiers snapped his fingers and the lights darkened. He pressed an icon on the table in front of him, and the holo-projector flared to life, projecting an image of Earth right in front of us. "At approximately 0300 hours yesterday, a small fleet of Covenant ships arrived in-system. Boarding parties managed to destroy the _Athens_ and _Malta_ Orbital Defense Platforms..." small holographic red dots appeared and moved towards Africa, representing the Covenant ships. Only one of them made it past the orbital defenses, however.

The hologram of Earth zoomed in and flattened out to a topographical hologram of just the African landmass. A blue dot pulsed over a point on Africa's east coast.

Angiers gestured at the blue indicator. "That is Mombasa, the second-largest city in Kenya. The Covies attacked the city en masse, but our local forces were able to hold it. However, at approximately 0500 Hours, the Covenant assault carrier that had been holding position over the city executed an in-atmosphere slipspace jump, which leveled a considerable portion of New Mombasa. Since then, Covenant reinforcements have arrived, and our forces in Mombasa have been completely routed. The city is now being occupied by Brutes."

I took a deep breath, watching as the blue indicator light winked out. It was odd to see the sacrifice of hundreds of marines summed up by a tiny light simply being turned off...kind of underwhelming. It went to show how truly far removed from battle headquarters facilities were, where men's lives were measured in holographic icons.

Commander Angiers took a swig of something presumably alcoholic from a flask he had been keeping in one of his pockets, and then continued with his briefing. "Our forces in Africa are mobilizing in Uganda, preparing for a counterstrike within the week. But _our_ concern lies northward..."

The holographic representation of Africa slid down as the projector shifted to show Europe and western Asia. Another blue dot winked into existence, this one situated in Eastern Europe, some distance north of the Black Sea.

"Covenant ground invasions have been popping up in Cuba, Argentina, Austria, the Midwestern United States, Japan, and several other locations across the globe. Efforts are being made to combat these incursions, but again; they are not our immediate problem. The Covies have amassed a force even larger than the one that burned Mombasa, and they've committed it _here,_" Commander Angiers pointed to the new blue dot.

The Master Sergeant leaned forward and squinted at the dot's location. "What's so special about the Ukraine?"

"We do not know," Angiers replied. "We do not know why the Covenant are attacking all of the other locations, either, or why they're attacking Ukraine in such large numbers. We suspect there is a pattern in the locations they are invading, but we haven't yet been able to discern it. Right now…right now, we're just focusing on trying to stop the Covies from steamrolling through these areas. Anymore questions?"

The Master Sergeant threw us a questioning glance. When none of us answered it, he shook his head. "We're good, sir."

"You all are dismissed. Report to the armory and get suited up; we're leaving in fifteen," Angiers rose from his seat, saluting us as we did likewise. We returned the salute and filed out of the briefing room.

I had to turn my head a little so the rain—the mist had intensified these past few minutes into actual precipitation—didn't get in my eyes. The armory was the large building nearly a quarter of a mile towards the beach. The wind was beginning to pick up, and the surf grew more violent.

There was a storm coming.

I followed the rest of my squad into the armor section, and was pleasantly surprised to find my old, battered Helljumper armor waiting in a locked with my name attached to it. "Hey, how'd you get my old shit?" I asked the others as I slipped into the black armor. "Thought it was lost on Reach."

"Don' worry 'bout it," Cajun shrugged. "We got your chestpiece all fixed up, too."

My armor had been damaged when I had gotten stabbed by the bayonets of a Brute spiker rifle, but it looked good as new. Or rather, good as _old;_ my armor had been through a lot.

My sniper rifle was also stored in the armory. It was really nice to feel the familiar contours of my old weapon, again. I had made so many adjustments and modifications to it that it was pretty much a unique weapon.

Hell, I was just glad to have a long-ranged weapon, again…I'd been stuck with an MA5B ever since Aszod. Throughout the Battle of Halo, I guess I'd been too sleep-deprived and scared out of my mind to really care what weapon I had…but now that I had my sniper rifle back, it was like I had just found and reattached a missing limb.

We were suited up and armed to the teeth within our allotted fifteen minutes. If we were under severe pressure, we could have done it in less than three. When we were _able_ to take our time, though, we always did.

The Master Sergeant led us back out into the rain, where we made our way straight to the airstrip. Commander Angiers was already waiting for us on the tarmac, along with—yeah, you guessed it—Lieutenant François Rousseau. Though, based a change in his insignia, I suppose I should be calling him _Captain_ Rousseau.

"Seriously, how the fuck do you keep springing out of the ground every time we need a ride through the clouds?" I asked the pilot.

"I've stopped questioning it," Rousseau shrugged. "Some things just don't make sense, so why examine them to death?"

"Are we ready for departure?" Commander Angiers asked the pilot.

"_Hm?_ Oh, yeah, yeah," Lieutenant Rousseau nodded. "We're good to go." He climbed into the troop bay and ducked into his bird's cockpit, where he fired up the pelican's engines.

"Get aboard, troopers," Angiers waved us on into the troop bay. "I hope the heating systems in your armor are all working; it gets mighty cold in Kiev this time of year."


	79. VI Chapter 79: Kiev

Chapter Seventy-Nine: Kiev

**October 21, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

Of course, there just so happened to be a huge thunderstorm moving north from the Crimean Peninsula over the rest of Ukraine, which happened to be the direction in which we were flying. The pelican was shaking the whole way, and Cajun—who had never liked being in an aircraft—ended up retching into a barfbag which Captain Rousseau had tossed back to him.

We were in the thick of the storm, too. It was impossible to see anything through the portholes. All that was visible through the cockpit windows were roiling black clouds, sheets of rain, and jagged bolts of lightning. The only illumination we had were the small red lights in the troop bay's ceiling, as well as the constant flashing of lightning outside.

"You guys think this is bad?" Rousseau laughed, practically shouting to be heard over the roaring thunderstorm that was all around us. "You should've been flying with me on Sigma Octanus IV two years ago, during monsoon season! Went right through a hurricane over the Azure Ocean, and I ended up barfing all over the radio controls and shorting them out! And I don't mean that runny, thin barf you just hurled; I'm talking about the chunky industrial puke! We ended up having to-"

"Thank you, Zephyr, you've gotten your point across!" Commander Angiers cut Rousseau off, to our relief.

Thankfully, the storm subsided as we put some distance between us and the Black Sea, heading deeper into the Ukraine. Kiev—the country's capital—was located farther up in the country's northern regions. I couldn't help but wonder how we were going to go about defending the city; there were no obvious places to set up a line. The terrain wasn't all that helpful, either.

The Dnieper River might have been more helpful if it didn't cut the city almost in half. The area to the west of the Dnieper was much larger than the area to the east, but still... Then again, maybe the river _would_ prove useful in the future, if we couldn't hold the entire city. I shook my head and forced myself to stop worrying about the defense. I would kill anything that attacked my position, and I'd leave the planning to the officers.

We arrived in Kiev around midday. It was impossible to tell the time by looking outside because of all the storm clouds, so I had to go off of my mission clock on my HUD.

Rousseau brought us in for a landing in Mariyinsky Park, which was located more or less in the center of town. The government buildings from which the politicians ran the city were very close by—in fact, I think that's where the higher-ups were establishing their headquarters. It made sense—government buildings were always bound to have secure bunker from which a campaign could be coordinated.

"The Covies haven't hit the city yet, but they will," Commander Angiers informed us as we disembarked, saying our farewells with Captain Rousseau. "And they'll do it soon. We've got every available unit we can muster on its way here as we speak. We're part of the third wave, I believe, and we're expecting three more waves of reinforcements before our window closes."

"Window, sir?" Apache asked, not quite understanding what the Commander meant.

"Once the Covies get their air force and anti-air emplacements set up and ready to go, it'll be incredibly difficult for our birds to get into Kiev," Angiers explained. "Once that happens, we won't be receiving anymore reinforcements…we'll be lucky if we still get supply drops. But forget about air support."

"You seem to know your way around an urban siege," our medic remarked.

"This won't be my first, no," Angiers conceded. "The Covies always do it the same way…though I am not ripping on them for having a routine, because it is an incredibly _effective_ routine."

"Well, we're about to find out _how_ effective," the Master Sergeant declared. "Point and we'll follow. Where are we going?"

"I'm sending you gentlemen across the river to the Darnytsia District," Angiers replied. "The southeast corner of the city. We're establishing a main line of defense just shy of the suburbs, and you're going to be part of it. Report to Lieutenant Colonel Hasegawa—he's heading up operations in that sector. Ask for directions to his CP."

"And you?" the Master Sergeant asked.

"I'm serving as General Eckhart's ONI liaison for the duration of this campaign," the Commander said. "Don't worry; I'll always be in the shadows. Now, go. Colonel Hasegawa will be waiting for you."

We exchanged salutes with our handler before we were dismissed. We headed out onto the street, which was crowded with civilians trying to leave the city—on foot, in cars, on bikes; any way they could. Not all of them would get out in time.

"I'm sensin' a high civvie casualty count when the smoke clears," Celt murmured, eyeing the lines of people on the streets.

Cajun scoffed, muttering something obscene under his breath. "An' I wonder how high the _military_ KIA list'll be because o' that. Civvies always fuck operations up. Always."

It was true—civilians were extremely inconvenient in situations like these. Technically, we could just ignore them and leave them to the Covies, all in the name of getting our job done…but you can see why that wasn't an option. And if you _can't_ see that, then _you're_ probably a Covie, so blow it out your ass.

"And you're also assuming that _we'll_ be the ones standing when the smoke clears," I pointed out.

"I _have_ to be assumin' that," Celt shrugged. "If I believe I'm goin' to lose, I probably _will;_ realism be damned."

We ended up hitching a ride on a troop transport warthog that was heading east. Well, it headed south along the Dnieper River for a couple kilometers until we reached the Patona Bridge, which the driver of the 'hog used to cross to the eastern bank.

The driver was heading further east, so we hopped off and continued south into the Darnytsia District on foot.

Darnytsia was, for the most part, filled with low-rise apartment complexes, small business strips, motels, and the Interplanetary War Memorial. Once upon a time, it had comprised mostly of suburbs, but Kiev had expanded over time. The district directly across the river, Holosiiv, had likewise been urbanized. The suburbs that had once occupied this space had gradually migrated further and further south.

I think if Humanity hadn't established colonies on other planets, it would be impossible to find an uninhabited square mile anywhere on the globe. Of course, even if we won the war, overpopulation would no longer be a problem.

The southeastern reaches of the city looked like Michael and Lucifer had just had a slugfest with each other, using the buildings as sparring sticks. There weren't very many structures that hadn't been hit by plasmafire in some way. Almost all of them were lacking roofs, and some of them had been reduced completely to piles of rubble.

There were no civilians in this part of the city. Anyone who had lived here had probably managed to get out through the suburbs to the south.

"So, Old Ironguts made it off Reach?" Cajun grunted.

"So it would seem," the Master Sergeant nodded.

"Well, maybe we got a small chance, then," the Louisianan shrugged.

General Edward 'Ironguts' Eckhart had a near-legendary reputation as a field commander. He wasn't the 'never-lost-a-battle' kind of general; there were none of those commanders in this war. No, he was the kind of commander who gained fame due to his ability to accomplish a lot while possessing only a little. For example, he once defeated several Covenant legions on Jericho VII with only a single division of marines at his disposal. It was that occasion that actually allowed him to swap his colonel's bird for a brigadier general's star.

If he was the one heading up our defense, it definitely didn't mean we'd hold Kiev...but it _did_ mean the Covies would pay a steep price for it, in the event that it fell.

It took us around fifteen minutes of steady walking to reach the forward CP that had been set up in this district. Like all command posts, this one was buzzing with frantic activity. We made our way through the organized chaos, heading towards Lieutenant Colonel Hasegawa.

Hasegawa had been a captain in the 9th Force Recon way back when. I hadn't seen him since I joined the Helljumpers back in '37. He really hadn't changed all that much...though there were obviously more wrinkles on his face, and his once jet-black hair was beginning to thin and gray. I considered introducing myself and getting reacquainted, but quickly decided against it. None of us had time for a reunion.

The Master Sergeant briefly conferred with Hasegawa so that we could get our bearings. Once he was finished, he hurried back over to us. "Alright, boys, let's move!" our squad leader pointed further to the south. "We're taking up positions with the 387th Artillery Battalion."

"What the hell are the artillery boys doing so close to the front lines?" I asked.

"The Covies are coming in with their armor," the Master Sergeant replied. "The 387th is supporting the outlying pickets."

"What kind of support will _we_ have?" I asked next. I guess it's just the sniper's instinct in me that made me constantly worry about my flanks.

"The 23rd Force Recon Battalion and the 117th Marine Regiment will have our flanks covered," the Master Sergeant clarified. "We won't be out in the cold on this one. Metaphorically, at least…" he added, watching his breath as he exhaled.

It had certainly been a big jump from the balmy climate on Crete to the climate here in Ukraine. Seventy-degree weather had dropped down into the twenties. Not for the first time, I was glad my armor's bodysuit had temperature controls that could keep me nice and warm.

We reached the lines of defense as we neared the suburbs. We were still in the thick of the urban sprawl, but the suburbs were in sight. Army troopers—members of the 387th Artillery—were sitting tight in their nests. We met briefly with Major Rosenberg, the CO of the 387th. He gave us a brief layout of the line—it was based around Mykoly Bazhana Avenue, which was a main road that sliced horizontally through the far south of Darnytsia District. It ran from the Pivdennyi Bridge on the east bank of the Dnieper River, all the way through Darnytsia, and finally out beyond Kiev's city limits. It was a wide, open road—a natural choice for establishing a defensive line around.

The avenue also possessed three large, square-shaped intersections where commuters could transfer from the avenue to the roads running perpendicular to it. They were the size of public parks, and they all had pit stop buildings in the center of their wide expanses. They were the southern Darnytsia line's three strong-points—places which would be the most heavily defended, as those intersections were the easiest places for the Covies to bull right through.

After the strong-points had been established and appropriately fortified, the 387th had branched out and covered the lengths of Mykoly Bazhana Avenue that stretched in between the large, park-like intersections. There were thirty-nine anti-tank emplacements set along the avenue, waiting for the Covenant column to come within range.

Major Rosenberg sent my squad to the middle of the three intersection strong-points, where we split up and went about our work. The Master Sergeant took Celt and Cajun—who now bore our squad's SPNKr launcher, which had once been Pyro's job—and embedded himself within the 387th's lines.

Apache took his leave and hung back, ready to jump into action once people starting screaming _medic!_ As for me, I hefted my sniper rifle and scaled the low-rise apartment building situated on the northeastern corner of the intersection, which was on the secure side of the avenue, obviously.

I climbed several flights of stairs until I reached the fourth floor. I think there used to be six floors, but the top floor was completely blown away, and only half of the fifth level remained. Most of the fourth floor was open to the elements.

A few weapons teams had actually set up portable SGM-151 missile pods—the kind that you could mount on a tripod and carry wherever you wanted, provided you had the ammunition for them. I made sure I got myself situated away from those teams—I didn't want anything distracting me from my future targets.

Ultimately, I decided to relocate down to the third level, which was still reasonably intact. On other missions, I might have been issued a ghillie suit, but time had been short, and it wouldn't have done me much good here, anyway. I found a good window—none of the windows had any glass left in them—and set myself up for some quality sniping.

Normally Celt would be up here with me, acting as my spotter. However, our squad was understrength. The Master Sergeant needed Celt down there more than I needed him up here. I was capable of acting as my own spotter. And hell, this kind of fighting isn't even what my squad is meant for. We an unconventional warfare unit; a part of ONI Black Ops—we're supposed to undertake the covert missions that no one ever hears or knows about for another century. We're not meant to be embedded within standard infantry units, which was what had happened here.

I guess it was the prospect of our homeworld getting fried that had made the higher-ups stop caring so much about the covert side of war. They were bringing out everything they had, including us. Though I still wasn't exactly sure how effective we'd be. It would be difficult to fight in a battle like this as part of a squad with no mother unit. This was more suited for platoons and companies. We most likely weren't the only Helljumper unit in the city, though—maybe if we could find and link up with others...

I shook my head, forcing those thoughts from my mind. Right now, sniping was the only thing that I could afford to think about.

Around an hour or so later, the storm Captain Rousseau had flown us through reached Kiev. It started as a dull sprinkle of rain, which gradually intensified into a shower, and then a fully-fledged deluge. The timing couldn't have been worse; not long after the rain really started coming down in buckets, I started to spot bright flashes of plasma discharge in the distance.

Though I couldn't clearly see that far away through the rain, I knew that the Covies were nearly here.

The marines who had been manning the pickets beyond Darnytsia's southern boundary limped back through the downpour and joined the 387th's lines. They came in clumps and individuals—no whole platoons or companies, or even squads, for that matter.

I didn't have to be tuned into their COM chatter to know that they had been completely routed. I think there had been a battalion stationed on the pickets, but the marines limping back to our lines amounted to little over a single company.

When I got a glimpse of the Covie assault force, a quiet stream of profanity slipped from my mouth. The Covies hadn't come to play with us; that was for sure They knew what was in store for them, so they must have decided to cut the foreplay and just completely slam our pickets in a swarm of wraiths and scarabs. And now all that shit was steamrolling straight at us.

Almost every house in the suburban area in the distance was in flames. The ones that weren't in flames were nothing but piles of rubble.

Several marines began to shout _incoming_ as the assault force rolled forward. But they weren't talking about the approaching wraiths and scarabs; they were talking about the incoming plasma barrage. I hadn't sat through one of these since my days in the 9th Force Recon, back when I spent day and night sitting in a trench. I have to say I hadn't missed them one bit.

I could see the roiling bolts of energy arcing up through the sky, even through all the rain. When it comes to Covenant and Human artillery, I'm really torn between which one is more terrifying. Covenant plasma roaring towards you is definitely a sight that would make you shit your pants, but Human artillery is much quicker, and you never know where it's going to land until it's already exploded.

Though sitting through a plasma barrage was plenty scary, I was secretly glad that I never had to sit through a barrage of our own fireworks.

The bolts of plasma started raining down on our positions. They tore massive craters in the streets wherever they hit. When they struck buildings, entire scoops of the structure would simply disappear, and a good portion of the rest would end up collapsing due to the lack of support. And the fires... Wherever a single plasma bolt hit, it seemed to spark five smaller fires.

Luckily, the rain didn't take very long to tamp most of those fires out. As the plasma continued to hammer us, I quickly saw how Darnytsia district had been reduced to the state it was currently in. It was very easy for plasma to destroy a city. I could already tell that even if—and this was a very big _if_—even if we were able to hold Kiev, all we'd be holding onto would be ruins. It would be years until the city was restored to its former glory.

But again, this is all hinging on the very unlikely assumption that Earth will remain un-glassed. I really have to stop making that assumption—I'd just be setting myself up to be disappointed.

A plasma bolt crashed into the corner of my building, lopping off part of the third floor and exposing the second level. I wiped my faceplate as the rain began to streak down it, watching the advancing Covenant armor.

The ground shook and rumbled from the furious plasma barrage. Normally we would have our own artillery answer a barrage like this, but our fireworks were still in the process of getting set up. General Eckhart, based on what I've heard over the COM, seemed to be focusing all his efforts on acquiring as many anti-aircraft and anti-tank units as he could.

This made sense to me; when the Covies fully committed to Kiev, they would surround the city, and then we could kiss our air support goodbye. The Covie air force would own this sky. So, if we blanketed the entire city with AA emplacements, maybe we'd be able to balance it out a little…

But until we could get everything set up, we needed to hold the Covies off for as long as we could.

The 387th's anti-tank guns began opening fire as the wraiths came within range. One by one, the foremost wraith tanks were struck by battery-fire from the 387th's thirty-nine anti-armor emplacements.

Even as I watched that wonderful, initial barrage, the firepower of the wraiths sent two of the anti-tank guns sky-high, atomizing the crews that had manned them. More Covie tanks pushed through the wreckage of their destroyed brethren, ready to continue fueling the firestorm they were raining down on us.

This was going to get bloody.

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

_I tried posting a link to a map outlining the raions, or districts, of Kiev, but it won't let me post URLs. So, if you end up getting confused, just put Kiev Districts in google images and see for yourself. I'd recommend the colorful one with the river drawn in._


	80. VI Chapter 80: Several Steps Back

Chapter Eighty: Several Steps Back

**October 21, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

I peered into my sniper rifle's scope, sweeping the area beyond the avenue for prospective targets. Though at first there was nothing to snipe at, I soon located a jackal sniper, who was hiding in the smoldering ruins of one of the burnt-out suburban homes which the Covenant armor was rolling through.

I centered my crosshairs on the buzzard and took a deep breath, preparing myself for my first kill of the battle. The first of what would probably end up being many, unless I swallowed a plasma charge before the smoke cleared.

I squeezed the trigger, firing my sniper rifle. My aim was true—the jackal sniper whom I had been targeting flopped back in a spray of red. All at once, the three or so snipers nearest to the one I had just blown away ceased fire momentarily before they started frantically scanning our lines, trying to locate me.

I shifted my aim towards another sniper and took that buzzard down, too.

As I looked at the mass of Covie armor rolling toward us, I began to wonder if General Eckhart had stationed the 387th Battalion here as forlorn hopes. I knew deep down that there was no way we'd be able to hold the avenue in this manner, and Old Ironguts had to have known that, as well...so maybe he figured he'd send in a few guns and try to cripple the Covies as best as he could.

I wouldn't have put it past the general; field commanders had to have hearts of ice during battle in order to attain victories. In other wars, I might have been a lot more cynical about what needs to be spent in order to achieve those victories…but in _this_ war, victories meant life. They were a postponement of Glassing Day.

And if the higher-ups _hadn't_ sent in the 387th's guns to hold this position, that Covenant armor would have smashed all the way the eastern half of the city virtually unchallenged. Eckhart had done the right thing...but still, I wished so many wouldn't have to die because of it. But this highlighted the importance of the 387th holding this avenue for as long as possible; if we could break the back of the Covie armor, we would be able to force them to send in their infantry.

And history has taught us time and time again that two infantry forces fighting for control of an urban area results in a massive bloodbath. The Battle of Buenos Aires from the Interplanetary War, or the Battle of Stalingrad from the Second World War sprang to mind.

If we had been attacking Kiev, we would have wanted to avoid that. But we were the outnumbered ones _defending_ the city; making the Covies pay in blood for every block, for every building they took was exactly what we wanted. The close spaces would negate—or at least _lessen_—the advantage of the superior Covenant armor.

Some of our proper artillery must have been able to get set up in the past hour or two, because after another few minutes of bloody fighting along the avenue, I heard the deep, distant thudding noises of artillery guns firing. Then I could hear the shrill whistle of the shells streaking through the sky, and then the final _crump_ of the impact. While the Covenant artillery relied on the intense heat and destructive power of plasma to burn its targets, our artillery simply blew shit to pieces wherever it struck.

And, unlike the plasma bolts, the Covies couldn't tell where our fireworks were going to land, so all they could do to avoid it was pray for luck. In that regard, I would consider our artillery superior to the Covies'. I just wish I could say the same for our infantry, myself included. Our KIA lists would not be nearly as long as they were if, say, we were able to acquire personal energy shielding like the Elites'.

Our artillery strike was pretty brief, but it helped a ton. The first scarab was blown into five different pieces, and two more were too damaged to continue functioning properly. A fourth was lightly damaged, as well, but it was still able to move forward and shoot, so it might as well have been good as new.

But it prolonged our life expectancies more than the artillerists could have guessed.

I shifted my aim to a third jackal sharpshooter, but a particle beam drilled into the rafters over my head as I was centering in on my target. I had been located, so it was time to move.

I backed away from the window and headed into the next apartment over. The walls had been, for the most part, knocked down by the furious bombardment that had reduced this six-story structure to a three-and-a-half-story one. I selected a new window and crouched below it, slowly sliding up to a firing position.

My head had barely cleared the windowsill when another particle beam seared past my ear, actually nicking part of my helmet. I swore again, dropping to my stomach and lying still, taking several deep breaths. I've been fighting for three decades, but close calls like that still scared me as much as they did back when I was sixteen.

This wasn't good. That jackal had me pinned. It would no doubt be scanning all the windows at this moment, waiting for me to appear in another one. Though it wouldn't know which one I would appear in next, it would be able to react far faster, because I didn't even know where the fuck it was hiding.

Normally I'd rig up a decoy with Celt, but he was off with the Master Sergeant and company. I was on my own, so I had to think of something by myself.

There was another thunderous explosion, followed by the painful screech of tearing metal. I risked a quick peek out my window again to see what had happened. In the half-second I had to look, I saw the fourth scarab brewing up in flames, slagging over to one side and collapsing. I couldn't be sure, but that had looked and sounded a lot like the work of an Archer missile.

Those suckers were normally loaded onto naval vessels, but it was possible to fire them from certain kinds of hand-held launchers. You couldn't shoot them from a SPNKr, obviously, or even from your average missile pod.

But a larger missile launcher—an M83 SSM Missile Launcher, for example, would be able to do the job. We called them _Ballistae,_ after the ancient Roman artillery unit. If you ever saw a ballista missile launcher in action, you'd know why.

Someone must have pulled some very sensitive strings to get Archer missiles down here in the first place, though, let alone a ballista launcher.

I forced myself to get out of my own head and focus on the jackal that had me dead in its sights. Every time I poked enough of myself out to squeeze off a shot, a particle beam would nearly drill out my eye, so I had to get creative.

I set my rifle against the wall and deftly removed the scope. I then gingerly crept over and set the scope on the windowsill of the window adjacent to the one I was currently standing next to. I then accessed my HUD and activated the tiny camera within that could, if need be, transmit the image of the scope onto my VISR. A small viewscreen appeared in the lower-right corner of my HUD, which projected whatever the scope was pointing at.

Normally, this could be used for actual sniping. Right now, it allowed me to see the bloodbath down on the avenue and—more importantly—the suburbs beyond. Keeping my eyes firmly on this viewscreen, I went prone, sliding under the window on my stomach, and getting back up when I was on the other side.

I glanced at the window one last time. After taking one final deep breath, I took a step back and sprang forward, sprinting past the window. A particle beam drilled through the air in front of me, and then another one almost grazed one of my arms.

A triumphant grin crept across my face. I had been watching the scope's feed the whole time, and those two shots had just given away the jackal's position. A UNSC sniper would never have gone for that shot. But jackals were not UNSC snipers. It was actually a common misconception that jackals were snipers at all; I considered them excellent sharpshooters, but they didn't have the makings of good snipers. They were too bloodthirsty and impulsive for that.

In previous wars, Human snipers have been known to face off with each other in duels that would last for days, even _weeks,_ as they tried to outmaneuver each other. Even when it was simply a lone sniper waiting to carry out an assassination, he would wait a very long time for that single, golden moment to arrive. Jackals would be incapable of doing this...whenever they saw any kind of opportunity, they would leap at it. Even if said opportunity really wasn't an opportunity at all, but a ploy.

I stared into the feed from my scope concentrating on the burnt-out husk of a house that the jackal was shooting from. When I zoomed the feed in a little bit, I could actually see the buzzard—it was perched on the roof, right between a chimney and a weather vane. It wasn't even _hiding,_ for crying out loud...

I snatched my scope back from the windowsill and reattached it to my rifle, getting rid of the camera feed. I rested against the wall right next to my window, still catching my breath from earlier, holding my rifle up straight. I closed my eyes, getting my breathing under control, settling into a gentle rhythm. Somewhere in the depths of my mind, a voice started counting. _One...Two..._

On _three,_ I sprang into action. I took a single step to the side, bringing my rifle down to eye-level as I moved. By the time I was in front of my chosen window, my rifle was already aimed straight at the house my target was holed up in. I nudged my aim upwards a hair and fired the moment my crosshairs brushed the jackal huddled next to the chimney. Even as the report of my rifle registered in my ears, I had pulled the trigger a second time.

As I followed the shot through, I saw the first shot strike the rooftop right in front of the jackal. But even as the buzzard started to step back, my second shot blew a hole right through the middle of its chest.

"_Beautiful,"_ I murmured.

About fifteen or so minutes later, the battle seemed to turn for the better. The Master Sergeant informed me that the Covenant armor was pulling back. The 387th's anti-tank guns had pretty much broken the back of the armored assault...though of the thirty-nine original gun emplacements, only twelve remained. I swept my gaze over the lines; I had been focused solely on hunting down other jackal snipers that I hadn't paid much attention to what was happening down below.

Even through the rain, it was painfully easy to see the columns of smoke rising from the ruined horror that had been our line of defense. Bodies littered the avenue, Covenant and Human alike. The moans of the wounded floated up from below.

The respite lasted only a minute. Within that minute, we started getting pounded by artillery once again. This barrage was shorter than the last one, but by the time it finished an entire legion of Covie infantry was already storming towards the avenue. It was a chilling sight...ranks of Elites charging shoulder-to-shoulder, the bright points of their energy blades bobbing in rhythm with their movement, hissing in the rain.

They crashed into our line further to the east of my position, avoiding the strong-points. Marines and troopers alike had been pinned down by the plasma barrage, and they barely had time to reassume their old posts before the Covenant infantry was nearly upon them.

Heavy fifties blazed to life, cutting through the lesser Covies. The Elites were better able to weather the storm. They were the ones who finally reached the line and broke through. Men on both sides of the breached did their darnedest to refuse the line, but it was all for naught.

Covies made contact with our line at other points within the next five minutes. One by one, the 387th's guns were systematically overrun and destroyed until none remained.

I answered an incoming transmission from the Master Sergeant right as I was taking out another jackal sniper who was sniping at a cluster of Army troopers. "What is it, sir?" I asked.

"_Scar, have you lost your goddamn mind? Get your ass into gear and fall back to the Darnyts'kyi Line! The Covies have breached the building you're in; you have to get out-"_

The transmission fizzed out and fell into static. Now that I had at least one foot out of sniper-land and back in reality, I could hear the explosions of plasma grenades below my feet. Armored boots could be heard thundering across the floor, up stairs…

I heard the low, warbling growls of Elite troops as they made their way up towards my floor.

The Master Sergeant had been quite correct. It was time to leave.

I hefted my rifle and sprinted through the broken-down walls that had once separated these apartments from one another. The intense plasma barrage had knocked most of them down.

It felt kind of odd... Apartments are usually always closed off from one another. Each apartment is its own little world. With all those walls torn down, though, all that former privacy was gone. I saw photographs, personal belongings, toys—faint echoes of the people who had once lived here. It was like I was stepping through their lives as I sprinted through the places where they had once lived, evidence of their past lives scattered all over the complex.

The feeling quickly vanished, though. I was running for my life, here; getting all deep and philosophical wasn't very high on my current 'things to do' list.

I reached another stairwell at the northeastern corner of the building. I ran into several marines—they must have been the ones manning the missile pods on the fifth floor—as I leaped onto the stairs. One of them was actually the one with the Ballista missile launcher I had heard earlier. Our motley little group hurried down to the ground floor. The Covies were still moving through the other side of the apartment building, so we were just barely able to get out with all our limbs. Barely.

Darnytsia Disctict was in flames once again. When I had first arrived here, I saw the aftermath of an opening plasma bombardment. Now I was right in the middle of its collapse; plasma was falling literally everywhere.

The COMs went down right around when we hit the streets. What had once been a somewhat haphazard retreat suddenly became a complete mess of men and women scrambling to stay ahead of the Covenant onslaught. By the time we reached the street, the majority of the forces that had been manning the lines had already fled—including my squad. They'd wait for me at the northern border of Darnytsia District until I caught up with them.

Petra Hryhorenka Avenue was a main road that crossed Mykoly Bazhana Avenue—it was the crossing of these two main arteries that formed the large intersection strong-point which my squad had been stationed at. And with the fall of Mykoly Bazhana Avenue, Petra Hryhorenka had just been turned into a highway that the Covies could use to drive straight through the rest of Darnytsia.

There were two other roads that had suffered similar fates at the other two strong-points, but Petra Hryhorenka ran north right through the heart of Darnytsia District, whereas the other two main roads branched off to the fringes. It was from this road that the Covies would be able to do the most damage.

The marines I was with stuck mostly to the smaller, less conspicuous streets that ran parallel to that large avenue. Thankfully, we didn't run into any Covies on these smaller streets; they seemed to be busy securing the main arteries before worrying about the smaller, less important blood vessels.

The next line of defense was situated around the Hütz Monorail, which ran across the river via the Darnyts'kyi Bridge. It also formed the border between Darnytsia District and Dniprov District, further to the north. There had been smaller lines of defense before that point, but they seem to have dissolved.

Even with the hellfire of plasma raining down all around me, I was still able to hear the booming explosion of the Pivdennyi Bridge—the southernmost crossing of the Dnieper River—being blown up to prevent the Covies from using it.

In the chaos, I quickly lost track of where we were. More and more men and women joined us as we forged ahead through the pockmarked and torn streets, trying to find safe haven to the north, until our party numbered in the twenties.

After what felt like hours of evading the plasma barrage, dodging Covie infantry, and just getting lucky in general, we found ourselves in a large square. Unlike the park-like intersections at Mykoly Bazhana Avenue, this square was situated right in the middle of the urban sprawl. I have no idea how long we had been ducking from building to building, avoiding the Covie scouting parties. Their main force wasn't far behind us, so we had to move fast.

Because of the tall, sizeable buildings surrounding the square on pretty much all sides, it had been spared from the plasma bombardment. To pound this square, the Covies would have to align their artillery on one of the roads leading into it, or they'd have to just hit it from directly above with banshees.

Something was wrong. I could sense that the moment I set foot into the square.

A large group of marines was running into the square as well...from the _opposite_ direction. They were running away from our lines to the north. It didn't take a career military veteran to tell that these marines weren't part of a huge assault force rolling forward to take back this part of Kiev—they were fleeing. They weren't all members of a unit, either; they were from a whole bunch of different battalions and divisions.

Our two groups met in the middle of the square. I asked their apparent leader—a three-striper sergeant who seemed to have taken a piece of shrapnel to the head, judging by the eyepatch covering his left eye—what the hell they were doing.

"Covies dropped a shitload of Elites in from orbit, the bastards," the Sergeant grunted. "They completely assfucked the 151st Regiment and wiped out our lines to the east. The guys manning the line at the Hütz Monorail were flanked worse than the goddamn Spartans at motherfucking Thermopylae. Our boys bugged out and crossed the river; have you been deaf this whole time?"

The man was clearly experiencing some form of shellshock, so I refrained from snapping at him. "Our COMs went down a short while ago; we haven't been able to hear anything," I said quickly before getting to the root of the matter. "So you're saying we can't get to the Darnyts'kyi Bridge, anymore?"

The three-striper nodded in between breaths. "Covies are hot on our asses—the north is toast. We're heading to link up with the force to the south so that we can get across the Pivdennyi Bridge."

"Uh…" I didn't know what to say, at first. Covies to the north, Covies to the south, Covies to the east, and a river to the west. How fucked was I _this_ time? "_We're_ the force from the south," I said to the Sergeant. "Well, we're the stragglers. Everyone else joined the line at the monorail...they must have got out over the Darnyts'kyi Bridge."

It was the three-striper's turn to swear. "You mean the Covies own the Pivdennyi Bridge?"

"No," I shook my head. "I mean there _is_ no Pivdennyi Bridge. We blew it to hell to prevent them from using it."

The Sergeant exhaled, muttering a few more choice oaths under his breath. "Nowhere to go, then. Okay… I've been in worse situations. I think."

I quickly looked around the square. My eyes lighted on a small house situated on the western side of the square, right where one of the main roads headed off from the square towards the river. It was small, only three stories tall, and looked like a family-owned place. It commanded the square from its position—anything coming through this main hub would have to pass by that house. That, and it was really close by, so I made a snap decision then and there, one that would save all our lives. Or at least extend them for a short while.

"Alright, everyone into that house!" I shouted, pointing to the structure.

Without a single moment of hesitation, all of the marines hefted their weapons and jogged across the square to the house. I was the last to get there, bringing up the rear of the group. Most of the others were already inside when I reached the place.

Despite all of the raging horrible luck that's been descending on all of us, Fate finally took pity and decided to throw us a little bone.

"These aren't supposed to be here!" one of the group of marines from the 683rd Artillery exclaimed as we ducked into the house. The marine was shouting up from the basement, so I clambered down the steps to see what all the ruckus was about. When I saw what was piled up in the basement, my heart began to thaw out a little bit.

The 683rd, during the few days it had to prepare the line at Mykoly Bazhana Avenue, had converted several buildings in Darnytsia into supply depots, under Colonel Hasegawa's direction. We had just stumbled into one of them. I didn't even stop to think of what the odds of our finding this place were; I was simply grateful for the unusual dose of luck.

The first thing I saw nearly brought tears to my eyes; Archer missiles. I knew that there had been a few of those bad boys distributed amongst the 683rd Battalion, and this was one of the places where they had been stored. Though it was incredibly good fortune that we had found this cache, it was also extremely poor organization that had resulted in them not being moved out of Darnytsia in the first place.

Still, though...while it was a big fuck-up on the higher-ups' part, it wasn't one that I was going to complain about. And seeing as we had a marine with a Ballista on hand, I was ready to forgive the brass for this little mistake.

The other supply crates contained a sufficient amount of ammo to arm a company for a month in the trenches. It would do just fine for us. There were also four SPNKr launchers down here, along with the appropriate ammunition. Heavy fifties, ammo belts...

"What the fuck was Colonel Hasegawa thinking, leaving all this gold behind?" the artillery corporal muttered. "They're gonna need this more than ever on the other side of the river..."

"I don't think he had time to worry about the caches," I shrugged, turning to head back up the stairs. "Getting the men out was his priority, not the material. And the quartermasters assigned to this post probably had a choice between rounding everything up and dying, or leaving everything and escaping. What choice would _you_ have made?"

"Fuck that shit, I'd be halfway to England by now," the corporal chuckled. "Hell, I guess I really don't have a good reason to be bitching, anyway... All this shit down here'll keep us alive for a few extra days, at least. Might as well appreciate it while it lasts."

I headed back up the stairs and returned to the ground floor, where the marines were getting themselves situated. They all turned to me when I walked through them. I realized that there was only a handful of NCOs here, and I ranked the highest out of them. The second-highest ranking marine here was the three-striper sergeant, and all the other NCOs were corporals. Due to the absence of any officers or top sergeants, I was technically in charge here.

I'd been a squad leader in the 9th Force Recon, once upon a time. But I'd been a reclusive sniper for much longer. Time to see if I remembered anything from the good old days...

"Alright boys," I said, listening to the plasmafire that was growing steadily louder as the Covies advanced towards this position from the south. "Looks like we're here to stay. Drop all nonessential gear and load up on ammunition—the Covenant aren't going to pass us by without knocking."


	81. VI Chapter 81: Our House

Chapter Eighty-One: Our House

**October 21, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

"Here," I pointed at a window in the house's living room. Sergeant Adoni, the three-striper whom I had met out in the square, bawled an order, and three marines lugged one of the heavy fifties up from the basement depot, deploying it where I had dictated.

I made my way over to the other side of the living room and selected another window which could be used as a heavy machinegun emplacement. "Here," I pointed again.

"You got it, Gunny," Sergeant Adoni nodded, gesturing for two of his underlings to fetch another heavy fifty and set it up. We had only a handful of the heavy weapons, so we had to use them sparingly and position them where they could do the most damage.

I took this brief opportunity to get my bearings on this house. This part of Kiev was an urban residential area, so having a normal house right here wasn't too out of the ordinary. The buildings behind this house had all fallen down, blocking up any approach from the west. At least we wouldn't be able to be flanked on all sides, and we wouldn't have to concentrate our defenses as much in that direction.

I placed most of the heavy fifties along the eastern windows of the house, which faced down into the square. I split them up—placing some on the ground floor, and some on the second floor. The third floor—which was missing a good portion of its roof—was where I had stationed the artillerists, who had the SPNKr launchers. They had to be wary of snipers, but were otherwise well protected.

Anyone who wasn't manning a heavy fifty on the first two floors was clearing out debris and finding impromptu spaces for them to crouch and fire from.

Sergeant Adoni and Specialist Sutherland—the ranking member of the artillerists from the 387th—kept in close radio contact with me the whole time, acting as my eyes and ears, as I didn't have time to be constantly monitoring the square. It was the Sergeant who notified me that another group of marines had arrived in the square from the south. What got my personal attention was the fact that they were being led by a Helljumper.

I told the Sergeant to keep things running down here while I hurried up to the top floor, ducking a little as I walked out into the rain. Because most of the house's roof was blown away, the downpour of rain fell right into the third floor, forcing the artillerists to keep the rockets and Archer missiles on palettes and under tarps.

The third floor comprised mostly of bedrooms. The plasma blast that had taken off the roof had shattered most of the walls up here, making it a mostly flat surface full of debris and several inches of water. Luckily, the water wasn't seeping down to the lower levels, else we'd be sheltered in a house-shaped pool.

I stepped over the piles of debris and moved up to the edge of the roof—I was just going to start calling the third floor the roof, because I was starting to confuse myself. I crouched down and peered through the scope of my sniper rifle.

Sure enough, I saw a group of Army troopers running their asses off from Covies that I couldn't yet see. They spilled into the square one by one from a back alley, trading fire with what could only be a Covie patrol. The main advance probably wasn't far behind; if they wanted to live, they needed to _move_.

And move they did.

I focused on the black-armored figure in their midst. The Helljumper walked with a slight limp in the right leg, wielded an M7 SMG, and a small hawk feather tucked into his shoulder pauldron.

"Apache, you crazy bastard…" I murmured, a faint grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. I was among friends once more.

I glanced at the rest of the troopers. Nothing particularly special about most of them, although one of them was carrying a COM relay on his back. The man that stood out from all the others was a short-haired, tan-skinned man dressed in ratty clothing with a small guitar on his back. Those troopers must have picked up a civilian along the way.

And if we could properly rig that COM relay, we might actually be able to get some form of long-rage communication with the rest of Kiev going. That would make things a little more convenient.

But all of that took a backseat to repelling the Covie assault that was about to quite literally arrive on our doorstep. The Elites that had spearheaded the assault against the lines at the avenue actually began spilling into the square before Apache and the others reached us.

By the time the newcomers reached our little setup, the Covies were at least halfway across the square. I pulled the front doors open myself and welcomed the newcomers inside. One by one, the troopers ducked into the building. The civilian came after them, followed finally by my squadmate.

I slammed the doors closed as Apache stepped into the front hall, pushing pieces of furniture up against it after it was sealed. "What the hell are you still doing out here?" I asked Apache.

"I could ask you the same question," the medic replied, gesturing out one of the windows towards the oncoming Covie infantry. "But I'd suggest waiting until later."

Plasma started to hit the house a few seconds later. I made sure Sergeant Adoni had things handled down here before making my way up to the second floor. Apache remained on the ground, ready to help anyone who got nicked. The Army troopers he had come in with spread themselves out along the windows on the first and second floors, adding their strength to the defenses.

I ordered the four sharpshooters—three Army troopers armed with M392 DMRs, and another marine with a BR55—to open fire. They were all stationed on the second floor, as well. Normally I'd have put at least two of them on the roof, but the weather was a little too hostile for a sharpshooter to be outside.

I crouched by a window and leveled my sniper rifle, joining my sharpshooters. We took down a small number of Elites as they charged towards us. It wouldn't really make a difference, but it _did_ wreck the neat organization the assault had had earlier. Now the Elites were jumpy, wary of the humans who were picking them off from a distance.

It really was too bad that it was nigh impossible to lay a minefield in the square; that would wreak havoc on the Elites. But even if we _had_ any Antlion mines, which we didn't, there was no good place to put them. You couldn't have everything, I suppose.

But still…seeing as we had stumbled upon a supply depot full of ammunition and heavy ordinance, I wasn't going to complain too much.

When the Elites came within range, I ordered the heavy fifties to open fire. I don't think the Elites were expecting us to have an organized defense mounted, judging by the way they were blindly charging us like fucking Brutes.

The heavy fifties didn't fire continuously. I made sure the gunners hosed the Covies only in controlled bursts—we didn't exactly have a bottomless pool of ammunition, here. We had to conserve as much as we could, or we'd be clacking empty and end up having to fight the Covenant Army with small arms.

I hadn't had time to complete preparations for the Covie attack. There were still a few things I'd have probably done differently, but wisdom comes with hindsight. There was one thing I was quickly able to accomplish in the next minute, though; I sent everyone armed with any kind of shotgun down below to the ground floor. If any Elites managed to reach the house, we'd need close-range weapons at the ready.

The Elites' advance slowed as their body count began to increase, and then stalled when they actually noticed this. They hadn't been in a tight formation , or anything, but they had been somewhat bunched up. Energy blades began snapping into existence as some of them descended into near-berserk levels of rage at our methods of repelling them. They were an enemy that preferred to fight an honest foe on an open battleground. This was not an open battleground, and let's not kid ourselves; Humanity is not an honest foe. We love unfair fights—unfair meaning 'to our advantage', of course.

At least, _I_ liked fights tipped in our favor. I mean, who wouldn't?

I used my own shots sparingly, as well, aiming only for higher-ranking split-chins. As I systematically began to cripple the leadership of the Covie assault, I kept having this odd feeling gnawing at the back of my mind. It had been only a month ago when Celt and I had been trapped on a distant, ring-shaped hell...only a month since I had met the demon from my past, that three-mandibled Elite, and worked alongside him. My life was certainly a unique one... I could always claim to have been spared by a Covie, but now I could claim to have worked with two of them. Those two Elites had been, for lack of a better term, my _allies_.

Just allies, though.._._There was a huge difference between an ally and a friend. Those Elites had been the former, not the latter.

_But what allies they would make_... I thought to myself, picturing a war with the Elites fighting alongside the UNSC. Celt and I had proved that it wasn't an impossibility...but that temporary alliance between myself and that Ultra had been born only from the extraordinary circumstances—trapped in a godforsaken swamp with little hope of escape, besieged on all sides by a nightmarish, parasitic species of aliens that wanted to wear us as flesh suits...

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and that had definitely been a desperate time; for both us _and_ them. This was turning out to be a desperate time for us...but for _them?_ Not so much. And what would the Elites gain from an alliance with us? Absolutely nothing.

_Goddamn it all, Alley, get out of your head!_

Sometimes I really wanted to tell that voice in my head to shut the hell up…but this was one of those times when it was actually _right_. I couldn't help stave off the onslaught as effectively with my head up my ass.

Though I _had_ managed to survive twenty-eight years of war with this annoying internal monologue going on in my head…what would a little voice in my head really-

_Alley! Elites!_

I smirked, noticing that my inner voice was the only thing left in the universe that still called me Alley-

_Now!_

I squeezed off another shot, quickly clearing the thoughts that were whirling around in my head. I don't know why I found it so hard to settle into my icy state of calmness…maybe it was the higher stakes that were vested ion this particular firefight. The Covies could afford to lose a few engagements, but if we lost even a single one…it was game over.

I don't think Black Ops personnel were supposed to have such untamed, impulsive minds…but I wasn't most Black Ops personnel. I was well on my way to becoming an old man. In times of…uh…well, whenever we weren't engaged in a war for the survival of our entire species, ONI wouldn't have men in their forties fighting in their Black Ops division.

But instead, this was an age where there were as many graying members of the military as there were members whose balls were still dropping. I'd always joked that I'd be wearing the black of Archangel Squad until I lost my memory or died of old age, but now it was beginning to seem less like a joke and more like a prediction.

The Elites regrouped twice more and tried to rush us, but our heavy fifties beat them back, as did our sharpshooters. Finally, they fell back, their assault having run out of steam. The myth about Elites never falling back was false; they fell back a lot. What Elites never, ever did was _give up_. Sure, maybe they fell back right now…but they'd probably return with wraiths tomorrow morning.

The gray sky darkened as the obscured sun set in the west. The rain eventually thinned out into a light shower and the thunder subsided, leaving us alone in our new home. Artillery could still be heard booming in the distance, and the night was lit up by bursts of plasma. Spurts of gunfire also echoed across the city, evidence of our struggles on the west side of the Dnieper River.

Other than the usual din, the night fell silent. Even the Covies had to rest _sometime_ during the day. Luckily, this would give me a chance to regroup and get ready for the next attack. The defenses were still rather haphazard; after all, I'd had only a few minutes to prepare.

I rested my sniper rifle across my back and descended the stairs down to the ground level. "Casualties?" I asked Apache.

The medic was busy patching up a plasma burn on a trooper's shoulder. "No dead," he reported. "Covies didn't get close enough to start taking accurate shots. We do have three wounded—two superficially and another a bit more seriously. Other than that…" Apache gave a hapless shrug. "Until the next fight."

"Until the next fight," I echoed.

I had close to forty marines, troopers, and artillerists under my command in this house—men and women from many different units, all scattered by the Covenant assault on Kiev's outer defenses, all blessed by Fate to survive the initial slaughter and stumble upon this square.

If we were to survive, it we be thanks to this house.

I held a brief meeting with Sergeant Adoni and Specialist Sutherland—the highest-ranking men here other than myself from the infantry and artillerists, respectively—in which we discussed how to improve our defeses. When we were finished, the two NCOs split up and started organizing their men and women, directing them to carry out the fortifications.

We started grabbing every scrap of spare, unnecessary furniture and pushed them up against all the house's doors and ground-level windows. Appropriate spaces were made for MG nests, obviously, but the gunners would be better sheltered against hostile plasmafire.

I was in the middle of dragging a desk over to one of the windows when the soft, twangy tones of a guitar began drifting through the house from above. I finished placing the desk and excused myself, heading up to the second floor, where I found the civilian reclining on a sofa, strumming the instrument he had worn on his back. A loaded pistol lay on the ground next to him.

He glanced up from his guitar, though he didn't cease playing. His mouth parted in a small grin, revealing yellow, crooked teeth. "_Dobro pozhalovat' v Kiev__,_" he spoke in what I assumed was Russian, or Ukrainian, or some other Slavic language. The locals here seemed to speak a smattering of different tongues, not just Ukrainian. And regardless, I didn't have to speak whatever language that was to have an idea of what he was saying.

Welcome to Kiev.

"Please don't mistake this for rudeness, but who the hell are you?" I asked the man. "There aren't supposed to be civilians in this part of the city."

"My name is Nic," he spoke in heavily accented, somewhat broken English, strumming a little riff on his instrument to go with his name. "Well, it's Nickalos, to be formally, but no one calls me that."

"We found him running from Elites in the alleys," Apache said to me as he came up the stairs and into the second floor's main room. "No idea what would possess him to stay in Darnytsia at a time like now, though..."

"You managed to outrun a patrol of Elites?" I raised an eyebrow, looking at the civilian with renewed interest.

"I am Roma," Nic shrugged. "A gypsy, some would call me. I have run from worse things."

"Why didn't you evacuate Darnytsia when we gave the order?"

"I couldn't leave poor little Sasha behind," the man explained.

"You have a kid with you?" I asked, not remembering a child coming into the house with Apache and the others.

"Kid? Child?" Nic frowned, not understanding me at first. There was a moment of silence, then a smile broke through the gypsy's frown. He threw his head back and howled with laughter until tears began to stream from his eyes. He said something to me in that odd mix of Russian and Ukrainian before realizing that I didn't understand a word he was saying. Switching to English, he said, "_Nie,_ my friend, _this_ is my dear Sasha," he held up his little guitar for a moment before putting it back on his lap and continuing to play it. "She's been with me through just about everything; I no leave her for alien friends to chew up and spit back out. I bring her with me."

My expression remained static; I wasn't quite sure how to react to this half-crazy Roma. "Well, it looks like you and...er," I swallowed, "_Sasha_ are going to be stuck with us for a little while."

"During the quiet times, I play Sasha for you and your friends, Mister Sergeant sir," the man flashed another crooked grin, speeding up the nearly nonsensical progression of chords that he was strumming. I knew he wasn't playing an actual song, just a bunch of chords one after another...but he had a way of making it _sound_ like an actual song. It wasn't all that bad to listen to.

I considered this for a few moments before giving Nickalos a quick nod. Maybe having someone playing the guitar was a bit unorthodox…but I think it would do the men good to hear something other than the burning city on occasion. Nic could provide them with such a distraction. "Alright, you got yourself a performance space until we get out of here. But when the shit starts to hit the fan, I expect you to pull your weight along with everyone else."

It was Nic's turn to nod. "_Da,_ yes, I play Sasha in quiet times, but in not so quiet times when alien friends try to break Sasha..." Nic's grin shrank a little. "I help you with the shooting, yes?"

I nodded again and turned away, not really in the mood for the young man's antics. Instead, I headed up to the third floor/roof and surveyed the artillerists, who were building up makeshift barriers along the edges of the room—places for them to fire their ordinance from reasonable cover. The Ballista and its Archer missiles were safely tucked away in a corner, under a heavy tarp to keep them out of the rain.

I don't the rain would have that much of an effect on the Ballista or its missiles, but why risk it when it was our best hope of staving off heavy Covenant armor?

I was called over to another part of the roof by Specialist Sutherland a few minutes later. I traded salutes with the NCO—though technically the rank of Specialist doesn't qualify as a noncommissioned officer, I still considered him one—and asked him what he needed.

"You're the highest-ranking person here; you should be the one to contact western Kiev," Sutherland said to me as he led me to another part of the roof, which was still sheltered under the remains of what had been the _actual_ roof.

Private Kaufmann, the trooper with the COM relay, was crouched over the backpack-sized piece of equipment, tinkering with a few of the controls. When he saw us approaching, he finished what he was doing and straightened up. "Gunny, Sutherland," the Private sketched a quick salute. "I think it's about as good as it's ever gonna get."

"So, how does this work? I transmit on the relay's channel and it sends my message out to the command posts?" I asked.

"No," Kaufmann shook his head, pointing to a plasma burn on the relay. "The uplink was damaged. The relay can still receive transmissions just fine, but if we want to send anything out we have to do it manually," he held out the relay's wire mic. "I have it set to an emergency channel that should link us up with the palace."

It wasn't good, but it was better than nothing. I activated the mic and broadcasted over the relay's channel, trying to raise someone on the other side. Finally, I got a response from HQ, though it wasn't broadcasting from Mariyinksy Palace—it was coming from further to the west, judging by the amount of static.

"_This is Kiev Central Command, please identify yourself,_" a woman's voice crackled from the relay.

"This is Archangel-One-Seven. My name and unit are classified…" I gave them my clearance codes which, while revealing nothing about me or my outfit, would confirm that I was functioning—on paper, at least—under the authority of the Office of Naval Intelligence. "Patch me through to Commander Angiers, please."

I could sense the handful of nearby troopers staring in my direction. I think their curiosity had been piqued; after all, they had just figured out that I was part of the most shadowy branch of the military, save the SPARTAN program itself. It wasn't every day you met a member of the Black Ops section.

The woman told me to hold a moment. Within that same moment, there was a soft buzz of static as I was transferred to another location. The smooth, quiet tones of my ONI handler quickly replaced the static.

"_Gunnery Sergeant Garris?_" Commander Angiers asked for me by name. Unlike Captain Delucci, Angiers referred to all of us by our real names—except the Master Sergeant, whom no one called by name out of sheer habit.

"Hello, Commander," I grinned, relieved to hear a familiar voice, once more. "I could use some help, if you're not too busy."

Before we proceeded, we swapped clearance codes so that Angiers could be sure that I was really me. Once he was satisfied, we were able to start speaking with each other properly. "_Is Sergeant Eyota with you?_" was the first thing he asked me.

"Sergeant…?" I frowned for a split-second before I understood what Angiers meant. Again, with the whole 'only using real names' thing... "Oh, _Apache_. Yeah, he's with me. We're both fine, for the moment. Is the rest of the squad…did they make it?"

"_Affirmative,_" Commander Angiers responded. "_They made it across the Darnyts'kyi Bridge before we blew it up four hours ago_. _I'll notfy them of your survival._"

"Commander, I'll get to the point," I gave a brief summary of my current situation—trapped in a house, having over a platoon's-worth of marines, troopers, and artillerists under my command, and no hope of escape to the Dnieper River. "We could use an extraction, and the sooner the better."

I heard the Commander exhale over the COM. "_Garris, the Covies have anti-air emplacements set up all over Darnystia District,_" Angiers sighed. "_I can't send any birds your way; they'd be torn to shreds._"

"I understand," I said emotionlessly. Though I had been hoping for a different answer, I hadn't been expecting one.

"_I wish I could do more,_" Commander Angiers said. "_But I will not send pilots to their deaths._"

"I understand…" I murmured again. "It's been an honor serving with you, Commander."

"_Enough of that talk,_" Angiers snapped. "_Your grave isn't dug yet. Hang in there. Keep someone in contact with us and we'll send you what artillery support we can. We'll keep the fliers and their heavy armor out of the picture, and if you can keep their infantry back_… _ Just hang in there, Gunnery Sergeant_."

"Aye, sir," I nodded. "Tell the others Apache and I said hello, will you?"

"_Good luck, Scar,_" Angiers used my Helljumper name, to my mild surprise. "_I'll see you soon_._ HQ out_."

_Yeah, keep telling yourself that,_ I thought about saying, but decided to keep it to myself. The COM channel went dark after the Commander finished speaking.

Specialist Sutherland and Private Kaufmann had paled a little bit during my conversation with my superior. "Are we really on our own out here, Gunny?" Kaufmann asked hesitantly.

"Yes," I answered, getting back to my feet. I then looked at both troopers for a few seconds, and added, "Not a word of this to anyone. Not a single word. Got it?"

Both men nodded.

"We need to hold out here until our boys can get across the Dnieper, and we won't be able to do that with rock-bottom morale," I muttered. I cleared up a few more things with the two troopers before leaving them to their own devices. I left Kaufmann in charge of communications—no one else was to use the relay. I didn't want anyone else catching wind of exactly how fucked we really were.

Once the defenses were finished, we found ourselves with nothing to do but sit tight. I made my rounds and assigned several marines and troopers to sentry duty. If something out of the ordinary started to happen, they would alert the rest of us. In the meantime, everyone else could grab some much needed shuteye until the sentries were relieved in two hours.

The next morning was a cold one. The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still out in force, giving us another gray day. It was bitter cold this morning, too—I had to rub my fingers and breathe on them fro several minutes to stave off frostbite—I was wearing the fingerless gauntlets, which allowed better dexterity with my weapons, as opposed to the full gauntlets that could be used in a vacuum environment. Unfortunately, they exposed my fingers to the elements, forcing me to keep them warm every few minutes.

I hated the cold—I mean really _hated_ it. I'm a Harvestian to my core. I was bred for warm weather. Sticking me in Ukraine in the onset of winter was probably the worst thing anyone could have done to me.

At least my armor's heating system was still working just fine. It kept we warm through the night, and now it was keeping me warm throughout the morning.

The Covies came back at sunrise, though, so I quickly forgot about the temperature.

Oh yeah, and they brought tanks, this time. We did get some artillery support from western Kiev, but not much—I would imagine they were busy trying to keep their own shit together, let alone having to worry about some isolated pocket of resistance far behind enemy lines.

Several marines shouted "_Incoming!_" as the wraiths opened fire, sending their ordinance blazing towards our house. I swore as they impacted, shaking the floors of the home. I made my way past several other men and women and pulled myself up the stairs. Sergeant Adoni was howling orders, getting the heavy fifties into position to prepare for any kind of infantry attack.

I ran up to my post on the second floor, making sure the sharpshooters and other heavy fifties were ready to roll. I contacted Specialist Sutherland next and made sure he had his rocket jockeys in position. We had four of the launchers handy, and Specialist Sutherland had handpicked three men and a woman to handle them. They loaded both tubes of their respective launchers and made their way up to the edge of the roof, taking up their normal positions.

I leveled my sniper rifle and aimed down at the square, looking for prospective targets. There were a few Elites directing the wraiths' positioning and movement as they bombarded us from a distance, and I took a handful of the out before they got wise and moved under cover.

I then focused on picking off Covies that were manning the wraith's turrets. Other than that, there really wasn't all that much to snipe. There were no jackal snipers—I'd have noticed them by now if there were—and the Covie armor was moving up without infantry, clearly thinking they could smash right through us with their sheer mass and firepower.

The wraiths continued to pound us for nearly two hours. I don't know why they decided to move forward at exactly 0900 hours, but something seemed satisfactory to them, so they started to advance. Maybe it was because they didn't think we'd have adequate anti-tank weapons.

The Covenant were a deadly foe, not one to be taken lightly...but they were as predictable as they were stupid. Well, no, not stupid...simply slow to learn. They made the same mistakes time after time in nearly every battle I've fought in—they'll send in a weak infantry force, which gets chewed up. They then send in an armored thrust without support, which will also get chewed up. It wasn't until the third or fourth wave that they finally started wising up and sending infantry and armor in together.

They knew we had heavy MGs at our disposal, but we hadn't used our rockets, yet…maybe that would end up becoming another nasty surprise. After nearly three decades of warfare, you'd think the Covies would learn by now to get thorough intelligence on a strongpoint before committing a proper assault force.

Or maybe they simply didn't care for the lives of their soldiers as much as we cared for the lives of our own. That wasn't too far-fetched of a notion for them, either.

The four troopers manning the SPNKrs opened fire when the wraiths came within range. Sutherland picked his rocket jockeys well; every shot slammed into a Covie wraith tank. Three of the hit tanks brewed up in flames, and the last one lost its plasma mortar, rendering it useless anyway.

A gold-armored Elite zealot appeared on the battlefield, shouting orders at the wraith tanks. I shot the fucker in the head, taking down its shields. It managed to slip away before I could finish the job, but it wouldn't be commanding from the field like that, anymore. I don't think Elites considered getting shot by a sniper from afar as an honorable death.

Of course, I was happy to dole out any kind of death they wanted, as long as it resulted in them pushing up daisies.

The four artillerists were gods among men with their rocket launchers. One by one, they tore through the Covenant armor. Our sharpshooters were also able to suppress the small number of infantry that crawled out of the woodworks to support the tanks. I personally took care of the lone Hunter pair that was sent against us, as well—that was a bit more difficult than your average Elite, but not impossible.

Things were relatively stable until the surviving wraiths finally pulled back. But the fight wasn't finished—the Covies still had one more card to play before they knuckled down and started _really_ trying to smoke us out.

Their newest response came around 1000 hours in the form of three, hulking, insectoid mobile assault platforms. They were chucking scarabs at us, now. _Scarabs_.

Normally, that would be more than enough to blow our little setup to Hell and back several times over...but the Covies weren't the only ones with an ace in the hole. We had one, too.

I swore under my breath as I saw the scarabs lumber into the square. They would be able to incinerate this entire place if they were able to fire their nose cannons; we had to stop them before they got in range. I abandoned my window and slung my rifle over my back, sprinting down the short hallway and into the second floor's main room. I pushed past several marines and leaped onto the stairs.

"_Get the fucking Ballista out here!_" I was practically screaming as I stormed out onto the roof balling my hands into fists against the cold wind.

Specialist Sutherland was already throwing off the tarp that was covering the Ballista launcher. With the assistance of one of his subordinates, the Specialist lifted the bulky launcher onto his shoulder. As the other artillerist held it steady, Sutherland flipped out the targeting panel, peering into the sights. It wasn't a scope or proper sights—it actually projected a feed from a small camera mounted at the very front of the launcher, rendering the environment into the blacks, grays, and whites of thermal imaging.

Another artillerist pushed one of the Archer missiles into the launcher's firing chamber, giving Sutherland a pat on the shoulder once he was finished.

"Acquiring target..." Specialist Sutherland murmured, stepping forward with his helper to the center of the roof, making sure everyone else was clear. There was a soft beeping nose from the targeting panel after a few seconds, and Sutherland announced that he had just gotten a signal pattern lock. He fired the Ballista.

The Ballista roared as it fired its payload, spitting smoke and flame out several meters away. The actual missile flew several meters into the air before there was another detonation, and the missile shot straight up into the sky, vanishing into the clouds. I grinned a little, letting the anticipation flavor the wait. After two or three seconds, the blazing Archer missile roared back down through the clouds, only it was directly over the scarab which Sutherland had targeted.

The Archer missile struck the Covie heavy assault platform. There was a blinding explosion of blue and white flame. Had there been any windows left in the vicinity, they would have been blown out. It had probably wreaked havoc on the Covie attackers' hearing, come to think of it...we were fine because we all knew to cover our ears when one of those bad boys was nearby.

The artillerist serving as Sutherland's loader had already slotted another Archer missile into the Ballista. He fired again after giving us a warning. Same routine—missile flies forward, small detonation, missile shoots into the sky...wait a few seconds...wait a few more seconds...missile screams back down, big explosion, lots of cheering from our side. Then Sutherland did it a third time, and the trio of scarabs was no more.

The remains of the heavy assault platforms littered the southern half of the square. Gaping craters had been blown into the asphalt and cobblestones where the Archer missiles had impacted. I we had to do that many more times, there would no longer be a square here—just a giant hole in the ground. As long as we kept our Archer missiles in working order, though, and as long as the Covenant attackers still drew breath...they would try again and again to kick us out. They wouldn't stop until either our forces arrived or we were dead. I think it wasn't even that this house commanded a major chokepoint for their armor; it was that a small group of Human filth was making them look like fools. We needed to pay for our insolence, I guess.

We hadn't paid too much, yet...but we would. I knew that we would definitely shed a good amount of blood over this house...but I also knew that the Covies would shed a good deal more. That seemed fair.

My grin widened into a full smile as the smoke began to rise from the wreckage, masking the Covenant's withdrawal. For now, we had won. Maybe it was only a painfully temporary victory, but I'd take even that over a defeat. As long as we kept winning these temporary victories, we just might survive.

Or maybe not. Maybe we'll just fuck up or get overrun, and the Covies will finally get to put an end to my miserable life.

Either way, I guess it's a win/win. So if you'll excuse me for a moment; I have to go win.


	82. VI Chapter 82: Fucking Alamo

Chapter Eighty-Two: Fucking Alamo

**October 25, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

The Covies didn't send very much our way after we wasted those scarabs. They continued to attack us with wave after wave of infantry and armor, but nothing too serious. I think they were steadily regrouping, amassing a force large enough to make us sweat, and keeping us from resting in the meantime.

On our end, I had it worked down to three shifts after the first two days. One shift for the nighttime and early morning, one for the afternoon, and one for the evening. They would stand watch and handle anything that came our way. If the Covies sent a force that was larger than usual, then _everyone_ would get to their posts. But with the shifts in place, it allowed people to get some sleep, which was crucial.

I was lying on one of the beds in a second floor room—being the acting commander of the house's defenses had its perks. Apache had dozed off in an armchair on the other side of the room, but he had woken up a few minutes ago.

"You holding up alright?" I asked my squadmate, but I yawned right in the middle of my question, so it sounded more like a series of unintelligible grunts. I stretched, rubbed my eyes, and asked him again.

"Apart from my entire body, yeah," the Native American grunted. "I'm just dandy."

I raised an eyebrow to that. "Sarcasm, Apache? Rather out of character, wouldn't you say?"

"Would you rather I put on war paint and chant to my ancestors?" Apache asked in those same biting tones, but he then shook his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting out a weary sigh. "I'm sorry, Scar… I guess I'm just a little overworked. And I don't like being overworked."

I could level with that. I had gotten maybe four hours of sleep since my squad had arrived in Kiev. Though I had spent all my time fighting or _preparing_ to fight. Apache had spent it putting marines and troopers back together—he had been working tirelessly during the fight at Mykoly Bazhana Avenue, and now he was slaving away over the wounded here in the house.

My house. Garris's house. That's what Commander Angiers said they were calling this position back at HQ. I'm sure the Covies were getting infantry in through the cracks down here, but the Commander was telling me that this square was the main highway for the Covenant to bring their armor up through Darnytsia, and we were the only thing pinching it shut. All the other main roads had been too badly mangled or blocked up for effective use.

Apparently our boys had tried to fry the road this square was on, but the Covies had it pretty well protected. But as long as we commanded this square, the Covies couldn't get their armor through, which kind of rendered the Covies' efforts to protect the road moot.

And so, starting yesterday or the day before, they stopped trying to slip their shit past us, and started actually trying to take us down. It doesn't matter how small of a thorn we were—we had been causing them enough pain over time to make them finally snap and try to pull us out.

We were all finding out just how barbed this metaphorical thorn was. So far, we had held firm against the repeated Covenant assaults against my house—even _I_ was starting to call it my house, now—but without reinforcements or relief, I knew we wouldn't be able to last for long.

Maybe if we could slip out in the middle of a dark night… Too bad the Covies had night vision gear just like us. If we tried to leave during the day, we'd be shredded before we could take two steps from the front door. If we left at night…maybe we'd make it ten or_ twelve_ steps away from the front door.

No, we'd need a fucking miracle of nature to get us out of this mess. For now, though, I think our lifespan was quite accurately measured by our supply of Archer missiles. Once those suckers ran out, we'd have no defense against the Covenant's heavy armor.

"If there's anything I can do to help," I started to offer to Apache, but he shook his head and wove me off.

"No," my squadmate interrupted. "I have to keep the wounded alive, but you have to keep _everyone_ alive. If I need help, I'll ask another."

I checked the time on my HUD. It was 1803 hours—just a little bit past six in the evening. I still had another two hours that I could spend sleeping. As I've said many times before, sleep was the most important element of staying alive during a battle. You had to grab as much sleep as you possibly could, _whenever_ you possibly could.

I was just starting to doze off again when Apache woke me back up. "You hear that, Scar?" he asked me.

I was still grumpy about getting jerked back to consciousness, so I didn't hear the buzzing noise until Apache asked me a second time. I straightened up in the bed and cocked my head, listening closely. Sure enough, I could hear that familiar buzzing noise.

"Sounds like drones," Apache murmured, grabbing his M7 SMG and slotting in a fresh magazine.

A fist of ice closed around my insides when I heard the plasma discharge in the air above the house. "Oh, shit…" I breathed. "Oh, shit, shit, _shit!_"

I leaped out of the bed and pulled on my helmet, grabbing my sniper rifle as I went. This was the first time the Covies had sent drones against us. It was actually the first time I had even encountered them since Reach—to be honest, the possibility of our coming under attack by drones really hadn't even crossed my mind.

But now here they were. Kicking myself could come later; right now, I had an infestation to deal with.

Normally drones wouldn't terrify me so much. Any sharpshooter worth his salt could pick them out of the sky, and once they landed _anyone_ could rip them to pieces. The only advantage they had was their flight…but in this situation, flight was all they needed.

They could fly right up into the sky and strafe the rooftop…which happened to be where we were keeping our Archer missiles. If one of them were to get hit…

Gunfire was already erupting upstairs as I clambered out into the hallway. "Gomez! Ostermann! Grab that fifty and get it up to the roof!" I shouted into the next room down the hallway, nearly startling the two marines who were manning the heavy fifty in the window.

To their credit, they didn't even question my sudden order—they got up off their asses and started packing the heavy fifty up like there was no tomorrow. Hell, if they didn't pack it up fast enough, there _wouldn't_ be a tomorrow. For us, at least.

I sprinted through the hall into the main room and up the stairs, storming onto the roof. "_The missiles!_" I thundered, practically foaming at the mouth. "_Cover the missiles!_"

The artillerists were scrambling to shield themselves from the drones' strafing fire. Once Gomez and Ostermann got the heavy fifty set up in front of the pile of Archer missiles, I told them to stop anything from hitting those missiles. "I don't even care if God comes to you in a vision and tells you to cease fire—you'll tell Him to shove it up His ass unless _I_ order you to stop! Got it?"

"Yessir!" the two marines hastily replied as they deployed the heavy weapon.

I turned back around and took a step forward, but was blown back several strides by a shower of glowing purple needler shards. My chestpiece caught most of the shards, but one of them managed to penetrate, drilling straight into the right side of my abdomen.

My adrenaline was pumping so fast that it dulled the pain. I remember roaring something into the air, but I don't know if I was actually saying anything. I fired my magnum, blowing one of the flitting drones to pieces. They were fast, smart sons of bitches, but their constitutions definitely leaned farther towards the fragile end of the spectrum. It didn't take very much to bring them down.

I shifted my aim over and picked off another drone. Ostermann and Gomez got the heavy fifty deployed and opened fire.

A plasma charge seared a hole through the tarp that was covering the Archer missiles, but it didn't hit the weapons. My inner voice was swearing up a shitstorm, but I kept all of that to myself. The artillerists were all swearing their mouths off, anyway—my keeping silent really didn't have that much of an impact.

The heavy fifty cut right through the swarm of drones that was hovering over the roof. The ones that managed to evade the storm of lead hung back and continued to take potshots at us, but the four sharpshooters—_five,_ including myself, although I was technically a sniper and not a sharpshooter—discouraged them from making anymore direct assaults on the rooftop.

While the sharpshooters dealt with the remaining drones, I sought out Specialist Sutherland and ordered him to get the missiles off the roof and down onto the second floor. Moving them back to the basement would put them too far away from the roof, but we had to put them under better shelter, so the second floor was the best option.

If people end up examining this battle from a textbook, years from now, they'll probably scratch their heads and ask, '_Why did that fucking dumbshit sergeant store the missiles on the roof in the _first_ place? Shouldn't he have known that they'd be unforgivably exposed there?_'

Well, I have only one thing to say to those people: Fuck you. _You_ try holding a house against an endless Covenant assault for nearly a week. _You_ try dealing with that kind of stress. Yeah, putting the missiles on the roof was a pretty dumb move on my part, but I had to be thinking about a dozen different things at the same time.

I had to worry about the fortifications on the ground floor, placement of the heavy fifties, ammo distribution, rationing of the food and water supplies to make them last as long as possible, tight organization of the men, morale, constant surveillance of the Covies' movements, constantly being ready to receive and turn back any blow the Covenant threw at me…

Forgive me for putting the missiles in a bad place. I made a snap decision to bring them up when those scarabs showed up. When the smoke cleared, I didn't even think to put those same missiles in a safer place until now. Yeah, it was a fuckup, but-

_Alright,_ I think I've ranted about this long enough. I'm sorry; I'm a little stressed out. Cut me some slack, here.

The heavy fifties on the ground and second floors opened fire a few seconds later. Sergeant Adoni contacted me over the COM and informed me that the Covies were sending in Hunters and wraiths.

"Are all the men awake?" I asked him.

"_On my floor, yeah!_" Adoni replied. "_I'm a little tied up down here, though! The boys and girls are probably a little disorganized on the second floor!_"

I swore again under my breath and killed the channel. "_Rockets!_" I barked, heading toward the stairs, stepping over the cinders and debris that still littered the former third floor. "I want rockets on those wraiths five minutes ago! _Move!_"

Specialist Sutherland started barking orders of his own, but I was already descending the stairs two or three steps at a time. I thundered down the halls like magma through a volcanic vent, shouting at the top of my lungs for everyone to get into their positions.

I actually came across two marines who were still fast asleep in one of the bedrooms. I can't remember if I kicked them or not, but either way they ended up waking up faster than a MAC round passing through its magnetic accelerator coils. For those of you who haven't seen a MAC cannon in action, that's pretty damn fast.

The floor started to shake as the wraiths began pounding the house with their plasma mortars. Our SPNKr launchers returned fire in retaliation. I didn't see what damage they caused, as I was too busy focusing on the Hunters. I couldn't snipe wraiths, but the Hunters…

They were more challenging targets, as they didn't have any real…well, it wasn't like any other Covie where a nice, clean headshot would result in a one-way trip to the Afterlife. Hunters were just harder to kill.

I conserved my ammo, only picking off the Hunters that were weakened by the firepower of our heavy fifties. That only took one shot. Sometimes it took two, but I was usually able to finish the job in one.

The Hunters actually managed to set foot on the front steps of the house, but that was the furthest they ever got. After that, with their armored support cut out from under them, they either folded under our lead, or they fell back.

I lowered my sniper rifle and allowed myself to breathe normally again. The fight had lasted only an hour or so, but I had been going full steam the entire time. Now that the rush was going away, I just felt completely drained. I hoped the Covies would wait at least another day before attacking again; I don't know how well I'd be able to keep things running if I was this-

I was suddenly cut off mid-thought by burning pain in my gut. My body was reminding me that I hadn't gotten through this last brush unscathed. I needed to see Apache…

My squadmate was down in the basement, which we had set aside for the extra supplies and the wounded. There wasn't very much we could do for the heavily wounded but patch them up as best we could with biofoam and bandages, but we didn't exactly have a state of the art operating room set up, here…

And even if we did, Apache could only do so much. He's a really good medic, and experience has put him on par with most military doctors, but operating rooms and severe wounds were in the department of the career combat surgeons like Doc Patrikos, and others like him.

I think Doc Patrikos was running the medical facilities back in UNSC-held western Kiev, come to think of it… Our death toll would be a lot lower because of that, I had no doubt.

Apache gave me a quick once-over and clicked his tongue several times. He wore an apron which was already splattered with red, and it wasn't tomato juice. His gloves were similarly hued. "Sit on that crate over there; I'll get to you in a moment," he ordered me.

That was one of the special powers of medics; regardless of whether you were a sergeant or a major—if a medic ordered you to do something, you sure as hell _did_ it. There was no arguing with them. And if you argued, then you were sent back to a combat surgeon, who would hold an officer's rank, and you'd _definitely_ do what _he_ asked.

Apache was busy clearing shrapnel out of an artillerist's shoulder. A plasma bolt from a wraith had hit a crossbeam up on the roof, and the wood splinters had chosen the artillerist's shoulder as their new home. Once Apche finished serving the splinters' eviction notices and removed them from the man's shoulder, he disinfected the wound once more, foamed it up, and bandaged it.

He then turned his attention back to me. Upon his direction, I removed the armor from the upper half of my body, allowing him to get a better look at the wound in my abdomen. "Needler shard?" he asked.

I nodded.

"That needs to come out. It'll cause blood poisoning if it's left in there, not to mention the risk of it detonating…" Apache explained. That was what made needler shards so deadly; they could explode after impact, which—if the shard penetrated the body—could wreak havoc on the internal organs.

If they super-combined, though, then it could tear a person in half, or at least scoop a large chunk out of him. It was always a fatal wound. Luckily, only one of the shards had gotten inside me.

"So, uh…how's this gonna work?" I asked my squadmate. "You can't drug me up—I need my head clear to keep this place running."

"I was not going to," the Native American assured me. "I have a limited amount of anesthetic—I'm saving it for serious cases. You get _this,_" he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from one of the shelves and held it out to me. He then handed me a wooden spool.

"You're joking," I raised an eyebrow as I took the two items. "Did I fall into the wrong century?"

Apache gave a hapless shrug. "You don't drink and bite, I'll have to have someone hold you down."

"No, no," I quickly reassured my squadmate. "That won't be necessary. I just…I… _God damn it all_…" I opened the bottle and drank. Several gulps later, I set the whiskey down and put the spool in my mouth, biting down lightly on it. "_Go, do it,_" I mumbled around the spool.

Apache took a set of forceps—glorified tongs, basically—and sterilized them in rubbing alcohol. He then wiped the blood that was still running from my wound and gingerly inserted the tips of the forceps into the hole.

I bit down hard on the wooden spool, closing my eyes and fighting the urge to scream. The tongs slid in deeper. My hands balled into fists, and I longed to lash out and punch something, but I held myself in check. My arms began to tremble and my neck muscles bulged at the effort of forcing myself not to move or scream.

Apache fished around for a few seconds before finally closing the forceps around the needler shard lodged in my gut. He drew it out slowly, not wanting to set it off while it was still inside my body. The pain subsided once the forceps were withdrawn, and I let the spool clatter to the floor.

Apache held the forceps up to his eye and plucked the glowing purple crystalline shard from the tongs, examining it for a moment before throwing it to the floor like a pinch of explosive powder, where it exploded harmlessly on impact.

I don't know how many had been killed in that last assault. I think Sergeant Adoni had put the KIA count at two or three, which wasn't bad, but losses were losses. It wouldn't take long before losses of three or four men a day would begin to stack up. It wasn't like we had a bottomless supply of manpower, here—I had less than forty souls to work with, and only a little over half of them were proper infantrymen.

The Army troopers and the marines were the backbone of our defense; the artillerists did their own jobs exceptionally well, but they wouldn't have been able to if not for the riflemen.

And even though we had a low KIA count, we had a much higher WIA count. Over a dozen men and women had trickled down into the basement, sporting wounds of varying severity. Several of them had to be confined to makeshift cots in order to prevent further damage to their bodies.

Apache quickly finished up with me so that I could go back up and oversee the defenses. I was beginning to hear the sounds of wraiths pounding the house up above—I needed to be shipshape, and fast. Once I got a bandage slapped over the small wound in my abdomen, I pulled my armor back on and sealed my helmet, grabbing my sniper rifle and bounding up the stairs.

"At least _attempt_ to go easy on your body, will you?" my squadmate called after me.

Sergeant Adoni was already pulling his heavy fifties back—the Covies never sent infantry in while bombarding a target, so it was good sense to pull your heavy weapons out of danger temporarily until they were truly needed. Once the barrage stopped or subsided, the heavy guns would go right back to where they were before.

I moved up to the second floor and instructed the gun crews there to do likewise. After telling everyone to sit tight and hang in there, I went up to the roof, swearing quietly under my breath at the cold. There was a strong wind blowing through Kiev, now, and it made the already-chilly weather even chillier. And if there was one thing I did not need any more of right now, it was this fucking _cold_.

Sutherland's rocket jockeys were already tearing the force of Covie wraiths a new asshole when I got up there. Private Kaufmann—the artillerist who was manning the COM relay—managed to call in some artillery support, which thinned out the Covies' ranks somewhat, but didn't break them. We had to accomplish that task with our SPNKr launchers. The rocket jockeys did their jobs well until one of them got shot through the chest by a particle beam. She fell to the ground convulsing and coughing up blood.

"Halloran's down!" Sutherland shouted. "Abruzzi, take her SPNKr! Cziernek, Meyers; get her below to the medic!"

As the two artillerists picked up their fallen comrade, I took up a position behind a pile of rubble and countersniped the buzzard when it took a shot at one of the other artillerists. I looked at the bleeding woman grimly as they took her downstairs—I don't think Apache would be able to do much for her.

The wraiths pulled back as evening began to set in. I know that by this point, the Covies had to be stepping back and scratching their heads. By now, they had to see us as a formidable hindrance to their efforts to crush western Kiev, as we were pinching off a main artery into the heart of the city. By now, they had to be gathering their tacticians and actually devising a semi-intelligent way of taking us down instead of the usual bomb-and-rush. That sort of thing worked with trench warfare, but this was a city.

I headed back downstairs to the basement and got updated on the status of the wounded. Halloran, just as I had predicted, had died of her wounds shortly after her comrades had taken her to the basement. She had been today's fourth and final fatality.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this," Apache muttered as he scrubbed the blood off his hands and arms. "I'm a field medic, goddamn it… I'm supposed to put glue and tape on wounds so that they can hold up until a combat surgeon can fix them proper. I'm not supposed to be doing the actual healing; I don't have the materials or the expertise to handle wounds like that particle beam hit…"

"You're doing good work here, Apache," I assured my squadmate, but he scoffed dismissively.

"Don't patronize me. I know I'm doing my best…" the Native American grumbled. "But my best isn't good enough. Half our fatalities wouldn't have been fatalities if we weren't stuck in this shithole."

"Yeah, and we wouldn't be an endangered species if the Covies hadn't decided to start using our planets for target practice," I retorted. "We're all victims of circumstance, here."

Apache's only response to that was a grudging shrug. I gave a mental shrug myself—Apache was free to bitch all he wanted, as long as his bitching didn't interfere with his healing.

Neither of us brought up the fact that we both knew how this was going to end; unless we got reinforcements from western Kiev—a laughable notion at best—our supplies would run out and we'd be overwhelmed. But we didn't think about that…similarly to how most servicemen hadn't thought about the possibility of the Covies finding Earth throughout the vast majority of the war.

We would hold to the last. Our own little Alamo. The parallels were amusing—even our artillery was similar. They had their eighteen-pounder, we had our Ballista launcher.

I mused about which part I would play. Travis? Crockett? Bowie? Or would I perhaps die a simple, anticlimactic death like a normal person, like one of the lesser-known Texians that had died that day.

We'd have to get the bodies out of here, soon. It was unsanitary to keep them down here. The proper thing to do would be to bury or burn them, but we lacked the materials and ability to do either, so we just had to get them out of the house.

I mentioned this to Apache as I headed back upstairs, and he told me he'd gather a few people and make sure it was done by tomorrow morning.

Back on the ground floor, I came across Sergeant Adoni sending several men out through the windows. I asked him what the hell was going through his head, but he showed me that the corpses of the Covie infantry from the past week—and now the Hunters from just a couple hours ago—had actually piled up so high that the heavy fifties no longer had clear fields of fire.

The marines and troopers Sergeant Adoni had sent outside kept low to the ground, pushing the piles of corpses over. I gave a single nod and told Adoni to keep it up. I then went back to the second floor, not in the mood to see all those dead bodies.

The calm, exotic tones of Nic's guitar began to waft through the house. Though no one had been speaking to begin with, it almost seemed like the silence itself had quieted down to listen to the gypsy man's tunes.

I didn't regret my decision to allow Nic to play during the quiet stretches. His music filled the silence with something a lot more desirable than the sound of the wind or the distant din of the battle that was raging in western Kiev.

I yawned, finally, and returned to the room I had been sleeping in when this last assault had kicked off. I contacted Sergeant Adoni and instructed him to wake me in an hour's time. I would resume shoring up the defenses then, but I needed a power nap in the meantime…

* * *

_I was in a hot, arid place. There were small, sandy, stone buildings, all surrounded by a high wall. I was dressed in a ragged, torn-up blue uniform that was adorned with red trimmings._

_Fighting._

_There was fighting happening all around me._

_I saw Adoni and Sutherland clad in equally unusual dress, though I didn't find it odd at the time. I didn't find it odd that Adoni was wearing an weird hat that looked like a raccoon, or that Sutherland was fighting with a large, wickedly-sharp knife, similar to the kind of hunting knife Cajun used._

_I also didn't find it odd that when I fired my weapon, it wasn't a sniper rifle I was shooting—it was an ancient double-barreled shotgun, probably the earliest of its kind._

_Smoke blotted out the sun. The sky was yellow and black. Cannons roared in the background. There were soldiers fighting all around me. Ladders on the wall…things crawling up the ladders… Elites._

_On the wall. I was on the large stone wall, suddenly. Bright blue fire was flying up at me, searing through the air, into the stone…_

_There was a deafening explosion somewhere behind me. I spared a glance back and saw an entire section of the wall in ruins. Elites swarming over the rubble like the tides…withering plasma tearing into our midst…_

_I aimed my shotgun down the ladder and fired, emptying one of the barrels into the face of the Elite that was nearing the top. It flew back, falling down to the ground below, vanishing into the mass of aliens pushing up against the wall._

_The cries and screams of dying men filled the air, mixed with the furious hiss of plasmafire and discharge of black powder._

_I aimed the shotgun at the Elite below the one I had just shot, about to fire the second barrel and send the split-chin to its version of the Afterlife. I froze when I saw the barrel of its plasma repeater already aimed directly at my face._

_The barrel exploded with blue and white fire._

_Something hot struck me in the forehead._

* * *

I jerked awake with a muted cry that was, thankfully, muffled by my helmet. I was in a cold sweat and my limbs were trembling. I sat up and unsealed my helmet, setting it beside me. I ran a hand over my hair and beard, which had gotten bushy again.

Remembering those last moments of my dream, my hand flew to my forehead, but there was no gaping hole. I hadn't gotten shot by a plasma bolt. I was alive. I was fine.

I glanced at the house all around me and, for a brief moment, I saw those dusty, bloodstained stone walls. But then the spell was over, and I saw the dark, scorched, wooden walls of my house in the southeast of Kiev. Just like it had been before I'd gone to sleep.

I got to my feet shakily and put my helmet back on. I slung my sniper rifle over my back and trudged out into the hallway. I headed up to the roof, where the only illumination came from the glowing butts of cigarettes, and the panel of the COM relay, and where the only sound came from the cold wind howling across the hellscape of a city all around us.

I looked straight up at the moonless, starless, black abyss that was the sky, taking a deep breath and exhaling it soon after.

"_Fucking Alamo…_" I muttered quietly to myself so that no one else could hear.

* * *

_**Author's Note**_

_Sorry guys, don't know what the deal was with this chapter getting up. I think it was an issue with my computer, so I took it down and reposted it, and if you're reading this right now, obviously it's working._

_Technology..._

_-TheAmateur_


	83. VI Chapter 83: Miracle of Nature

Chapter Eighty-Three: Miracle of Nature

**October 28, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

"Things are getting pretty desperate in my neck of the woods, Commander," I spoke into the COM relay. I had sent Private Kaufmann away for the moment—Angiers's words were for my ears and mine alone. "I know the Covies have AA all over the place, but..." I lowered my voice until it was just barely above a whisper, "If we don't get help soon, you'll be toasting to my memory."

"_Your memory isn't the only one people will be toasting to,_" the Commander sighed on the other end of the channel. "_We're stuck in a meatgrinder ourselves. Covies gained a foothold on this side of the Dnieper from the Moscovskyi Bridge—the _one_ crossing we weren't able to blow up_._ We've been pushed all the way back into the northwestern reaches of the city. Svyatoshyn District and the western halves of Obolon and Podil Districts__ are still ours, but beyond that…_"

"Western Kiev got fried?" I gawked at the relay. Sure, I knew things had deteriorated pretty fast in eastern Kiev, but the purpose of that had been to give _western_ Kiev the chance to shore up its defenses. Apparently, it hadn't been enough...

"_None of it got _fried _fried,_" Commander Angiers assured me. "_But the Covies have been pouring their armor in from the southwest as well, now. They just smashed through street after street...there was no stopping them. We've ground it down to a stalemate, now, but I don't know how long it will last... You are not the only one in Kiev who is in need of a miracle._"

"Well, who knows," I murmured, a twisted, sarcastic form of optimism stirring deep within my gut. "Maybe we'll get a miracle. For all the bad luck we've been having lately, something's gotta balance out those scales..."

"_Well, anyway, I'd make sure all your men are wrapped up warm,_" Commander Angiers continued. "_Satellite intel's still a little iffy, but we might be getting a little snow._"

I snorted. I was having enough trouble with the cold and the rain, so _obviously_ Nature had to dump in a little snow, for good measure. Maybe I wasn't miserable enough, before. "Great," I responded. "Really, that's wonderful, Commander. Thanks for the good news."

"_Well, I've always enjoyed being the bearer of good news, so you're welcome,_" the Commander chuckled. "_Good luck, Gunnery Sergeant. I wish I could do more._"

"Good luck to you, too," I replied, but the channel was already dead. "Not one much for goodbyes, are you, Commander?" I muttered as I put the mic back in its groove.

I nodded to Private Kaufmann and allowed him to return to his old post.

It had started to snow late last night. Everything was blanketed in a thin layer of white, now. The wind had also died down to practically nothing, so the snow wasn't disturbed in any way. Even the din of the battle had quieted down—snowfall just seemed to have a way of cancelling out all of the ambient noise of a normal day.

The loudest noises were the marines, troopers, and artillerists quietly talking with one another. That, and the sound of your own breathing. I loved exhaling, listening to the sound of my breath against a completely silent environment. It was almost like taking a stroll in the dead of night.

I've said before that Fate has an odd sense of humor, and I'll say it again: _Fate has an odd sense of humor_. I've bitched and bitched about the cold weather, and with good reason…but the snow actually ended up _saving_ our sorry hides.

"_Movement! I've got movement!_" Corporal Abruzzi, the artillerist who had become the newest rocket jockey after Halloran's death three days ago, shouted suddenly, breaking the silence.

Several artillerists crowded to the edge of the roof and peered down into the square—_me_ included—but we saw nothing. I sought out Abruzzi and asked him to specify.

"I… I thought I'd seen… Never mind, it was probably nothing," Abruzzi shook his head.

"If it was nothing, you wouldn't have brought half the roof over for a look-see," I retorted. "Show me."

Abruzzi cleared his throat and pointed down into the square, right near a statue of Vladimir Koslov. I couldn't see anything with the naked eye, so I unslung my sniper rifle and took a closer look. I frowned when I saw the footprints in the snow.

My frown deepened even further when I saw more footprints being made that hadn't been there an instant before. I blinked, rubbed my eye, and refocused my scope. Sure enough, there were even more footprints there than there had been a second ago.

I edged my gaze downwards. That icy feeling in my gut that I had gotten when I heard the drones attacking the roof several days ago—that's the feeling I got when I saw a set of footprints just magically appearing in the snow. It was pretty hard to see—I was only able to see it so well because of my scope.

To Abruzzi, it might just have been a slight movement in the peripheries, something that could have easily been imagined and dismissed. But he _hadn't_ imagined it, and—more importantly—he _hadn't_ dismissed it. Had it not been for the snow, he never would have seen a thing…and neither would I.

I fired my rifle right where I figured the next footprint would show up…and a Brute suddenly appeared out of nowhere, bleeding from the wound I had inflicted on it, its active camouflage and energy shields disabled. I fired again and crowned the hulking Covie monster, taking it out of the picture.

Shouts of surprise immediately rang out from below as the marines and troopers saw the incoming stalker Brutes.

I quickly contacted Sergeant Adoni without a single moment's hesitation. "Sergeant, we have invisible apes outside!" I warned him. "Get your men read-"

Just then, I heard an explosion downstairs, muffled somewhat by the two floors separating me from it, but still pretty loud. A river of profanity exploded from my mouth as I made for the stairs. I shouted for Sutherland to keep his men on high alert for Covenant armor.

Down on the ground floor, I found a bloodbath. Men and women were lying on the ground, some groaning and clutching their wounds, others eerily still. Brute corpses littered the floor as well, but there were still at least five of them still raging through the front hall.

I quickly whipped out my magnum and dropped one of the Brutes with a quick shot to the head. These magnums may not be the largest weapons in the arsenal, but they sure did pack a punch if aimed at the right places. The head, for example—magnums were downright deadly if you were able to score headshots with them.

Luckily, accuracy was one of the things I excelled at. I aimed at a second Brute that was charging towards an Army trooper with her back turned, but she ended up whipping around and firing a shell from her shotgun right through the unshielded Brute's stomach. Good thing she'd had a shotgun…

We managed to kill the rest of the stealth Brutes within two minutes, but they had already doled out more damage than I could afford to take. Eight men and women had died in that attack and several more had been seriously wounded, including Sergeant Adoni, who had gotten shot through the chest with a spiker rifle round.

Adoni had been indispensable. I had lost my right hand. Sutherland was still in one piece, but he was an artillerist—his sphere of influence ended on the stairs leading down from the roof. I now had to worry about the ground floor even more than before.

Not that we had time to lick our wounds—we had barely finished killing the last of the stalker Brutes when the entire ground floor suddenly became a shooting gallery. Bright projectiles started tearing through the open windows and parts of the walls, burning a blinding yellow and white.

My defenders began shouting, "_Choppers!_" but I already knew what they were. They were the very first Covie vehicles I had ever encountered—back on Harvest, when I was only sixteen years old, we had faced off against three of those things. In my humble opinion, a chopper charging straight at you is much more terrifying than a ghost doing the same thing.

"Sutherland, lay some rockets down on those fuckers!" I shouted into my throat mic, ducking as a grandfather clock crashed to the ground right next to where I was crouching.

"_I'm doing the best I can, Gunny!_" the artillerist's response was. "_The Covies have scarabs coming into the square; I'm a little tied down, right now!_"

True to his word, though, I saw the flashes of the HEAT—high-explosive anti-tank—shells that the rocket jockeys were using for ammunition race by. The flashes were followed by explosions. I'm sure the artillerists had hit several of the attacking brute choppers, but I wasn't in a good position to double-check.

I pulled over Private Tanner and tasked him with moving the heavily-wounded Sergeant Adoni down to the basement. I made sure the other wounded were moved as well, but I wanted Adoni to be taken care of first. I know it may sound cold, but it would be a lot worse for all of us if he died as opposed to any of the other soldiers here. Once that was done, I remained on the ground floor. With Adoni out of the picture, I was needed down here more than ever. The second floor would be fine—I could already hear the heavy fifties opening up on the choppers.

We cleared away the choppers within the next eight or nine minutes, and lost another three men in the process. I had started this fight with a force of nearly forty; now I commanded roughly seventeen or eighteen able men and women. Half of my force was gone—either dead, or too wounded to be of any immediate use. I could only imagine the hell Apache must be going through right now...

The Covies sent in their infantry right behind the choppers. They kept us more than occupied, leaving the task of taking out the scarabs to the artillerists. Specialist Sutherland had men running archer missiles up from the second floor onto the roof. I could hear the Ballista opening fire all the way down here. The explosions caused by the Archer missiles were quite distinct. Those particular missiles were usually mounted on Naval vessels. Back in the good old days when humans still fought other humans, those missiles were able to tear naval vessels to pieces.

Now, of course, they weren't much use unless a Covenant ship's shields were down. But they were downright _deadly_ in ground warfare. Using the Ballista in this manner was basically firing heavy artillery right from the comfort of your own shoulder. And man, did it _work_.

The wind began to pick up again as the day dragged on. The snow intensified as well, quickly covering the entire square in a thick blanket of white, despite the disruption our battle was causing.

This fight lasted at least five hours—it was led by Brutes, this time, and they just kept on sending wave after wave of infantry into our meatgrinder. I think they had been hoping to fatally cripple us with that stealth attack, not expecting a long, drawn-out fight. I also think that if Corporal Abruzzi had not spotted the movement of those stalker Brutes from the rooftop, the stealth attack would have done just that. We could have easily lose the ground floor, which would cut us off from the basement. Our supplies would have been destroyed, our wounded killed, Apache would be dead...

We all owed Abruzzi a beer when this was over.

Once we recovered from the initial pandemonium of the stealth attack and the subsequent vehicular assault by the choppers, we were able to get our heavy fifties back into position, reorganize the men so that the jobs that had been carried out by those who were now wounded and dead were not neglected, and dig back in. With the heavy fifties from the top floor adding their firepower into the mix, as well as the help from our other four sharpshooters, we were able to keep the Brutes and their underlings at bay.

"This is fuckin' ridiculous, man!" the marine next to me finally shouted after the repeated assaults against our lines refused to relent. There were hills, literal _hills_ of Covenant corpses piled up all along the sides of my house. I had people constantly running down to the basement to bring up more belts for the heavy fifties—we were going to run dry if this kept up for much longer.

The marine was right; this _was_ fucking ridiculous. I don't understand what would possess the Covenant leadership to suddenly turn command of this operation over to the Brutes—the Elites had been unsuccessful thus far, but they had been steadily, methodically wearing us down. The Brutes, though…they were just feeding their dicks into a meatgrinder and turning the crank all by themselves.

Come to think of it, I hadn't seen any Elites since that last major attempt to break our lines when they sent Hunters into the fray. It had been relatively quiet since then, except for this one instance two nights ago when furious plasmafire suddenly broke out.

I had called everyone to stations and gotten the house ready for Armageddon…but no attack came. We could see the Covie weaponsfire flaring away in the rest of the city, but it wasn't directed towards us. It was like they were just shooting into the air.

But now the Elites seemed to have gone to another part of the city, leaving the Brutes in charge. And the Brutes were doing their best to make this one of their costliest battles. Dozens of apes met their end at the hands of our heavy fifty gunners, along with God knows how many grunts and jackals. Like I said—there were hills of bodies piling up outside.

Incoming Brutes were forced now to climb over their dead brethren. They were able to do so with the most ease, however—grunts struggled to climb over the mounds of bodies. The mounds actually obstructed the ground floor heavy fifties' lines of fire, rendering them only able to shoot at Covies that reached the tops of the piles.

We'd have to tip those piles over when this whole thing ended.

Ultimately, we didn't have to. The Brutes kept at us until nightfall. Amazingly enough, we had only taken a single loss in the time since the after the stealth attack until the Brutes finally couldn't take the weather anymore. The snowfall had been getting worse and worse as the day wore on until now it could be considered a blizzard.

We were definitely getting that snow Commander Angiers had mentioned.

We were finally able to regroup and lick our wounds after the Brutes pulled back. I went downstairs briefly, but Apache was up to his eyeballs in his work. He quickly explained that he had managed to stabilize Sergeant Adoni—luck of the Irish, if you ask me—before tactfully asking me to get the fuck out of his way.

I knew better than to interfere with a medic when he was working at fever pitch, so I headed up to the roof. The wind was bitter cold, and the snow was blinding. It was fascinating how quickly a calm snowfall can blow up into a major blizzard like this. Already, the mountains of Covenant corpses had been turned into snowdrifts. Vladimir Koslov, the statue in the middle of the square, was already buried up to his knees.

And the rooftop up here was beginning to pile up with snow. There was no way in hell I was going to have men outside in these conditions. I ordered Specialist Sutherland and his men to pack up their gear and get down below into the second floor.

Once all of the rockets had been moved, along with the four SPNKr launchers and the Ballista, I covered the stairwell leading to the second floor with the tarp we had used to keep the Ballista and its Archer missiles dry from the rain. This prevented the chaotic snowfall from blowing into the house's interior.

We then ripped through the house, taking curtains, bedsheets, towels—anything we could find—and we covered up as many windows as we could. We really just focused on covering the windows of the windward side of the house—which was towards the square, as there was nothing behind my house but collapsed buildings and other kinds of wreckage.

We were able to share the few blankets and quilts that had been left in the house. I didn't want to use it all for plugging the holes and windows in the house, as we still had to keep warm. It helped, but it was still pretty damn cold in here.

Still, though…pretty damn cold was preferable to dying of hypothermia.

I didn't use a blanket, personally, because of the heating system in my armor. Well, to be technical, it was a _climate control_ system—it could cool me down as well as warm me up—but I used the heating feature much more often than I ever used the cooling one. I grew up on Harvest. I'm used to excessive heat.

I posted sentries on rotating shifts, keeping a constant watch in case the Covies tried to attack again, but I highly doubted they would make an attempt in weather like this. I grinned lightly, staring out through a window into the darkness.

I knew the Covies were out there, cursing this snow. They had been on the verge of breaking us, but now they had to stop and let us rejuvenate, and all because of a little bit of early Ukrainian winter. "_Dobro pozhalovat v' Kiev_…" I muttered into the wind, echoing what Nic had said to me when I first arrived here.

I tried to raise Commander Angiers via the COM relay, but the weather must have been wreaking havoc on the already-shaky signal that had connected us with HQ, so all I got in response was static. I set the relay aside and headed to the second floor.

Specialist Sutherland said he'd handle first two watches. "You had to have run yourself ragged down there, handing two floors at once," the Army Specialist said to me. "Get some rest, Gunny; you need it more than me."

"Well, I won't argue with you this time," I chuckled. I _did_ need rest, and badly. In the past, I wouldn't let someone else do something like this for me…but I hadn't always been a middle-aged man. I didn't have nuclear batteries burning inside me, anymore; my power cells needed recharging, or they'd go dark.

The house was illuminated by oil candles and neon gas lanterns, but they were few and far between, so visibility even _inside_ the house was poor. All of the marines and troopers had personal lights, but they would not use them unless the Covies staged a night raid.

I took a few minutes to allow my eyes to adjust to the dim light of my house before returning to my usual room on the second floor. I had given the bed to Apache so that the wounded could rest on it, but I kept a single pillow so that I would be able to actually sleep. I removed my helmet and placed it on the floor next to the pillow before lying down.

I crossed my hands over my chest and closed my eyes, some small part of my mind wondering—and wary of—where my dreams would take me.

* * *

The blizzard lasted three straight days. I'm not sure if it was actually snowing that entire time, but the wind never let up. We gradually lost the ground floor to the elements—the snow just kept on blowing in through the windows. Once it started piling up against the house, the sheets and towels we had blocking the windows weren't able to keep the large drifts of snow at bay. I ordered everyone to pack up the heavy fifties on the ground floor and bring them up to the second level, as well as any of the ammunition we had stored down there.

I made sure a path to the basement was kept clear, and I kept the heavy fifties on the second floor in place. I also took the window covers from the ground floor and added them to the second story windows, which helped keep even more of the cold wind out of the interior.

From what Nic told me, it was rather early in the year for a blizzard like this to hit Kiev. Normally the heavy snow came later on in December. However, ever since the Covies started glassing parts of east Africa, climates all over the world were going temporarily haywire.

I'm sure there was some kind of explanation for why there was such a major blizzard this time of year, but I really didn't care. All that mattered was that it had come. It was my miracle of nature, as it were. When it stopped snowing on Halloween, I looked out one of the windows, and I knew that there was no way the Covies would be able to move their armor through the streets with this much snow blocking the way.

There was absolutely no activity out there whatsoever. Without armored support, the Brutes didn't seem keen to send anymore of their fodder into the meatgrinder. They seemed to be sitting tight. The lack of gunfire in the distance suggested that the Covies all around Kiev were doing likewise—sitting tight and waiting for the snow to subside.

I still hate snow…but maybe I was a little more thankful for it.

With this snow came a great opportunity, however. The Covies were no longer attacking this position, which actually gave us the opportunity to explore a new tactic in our little fight here: _escape_.

Nic mentioned there being a subway station just a block west of the square, well within walking distance. Vehicles wouldn't be able to get through all the snow until it subsided, but it could be done on foot. It would be difficult, but it could be done. The gypsy man had volunteered to lead us there.

Not that it mattered, very much; the snow had us blocked in. So, our new task—rather than shoring up my house's defenses—was to start clearing a path out of my house and across the square.

The snow wasn't so bad on the streets as it was in the square. The square was wide open, so the snow was able to pile up to enormous heights, but streets were much narrower spaces, blocked partially by the buildings on either side. If we could dig to the street running west, we'd be golden.

I gave the order to start digging the day after Halloween; the First of November. Progress was painfully slow, and I was equally aware that the more time it took us to get through the square, the more likely the Covies were to clear through the snow and reach us before we could escape.

It was a huge race against the clock, essentially. We dug out of my house on that first day of the new month, which was a victory in of itself, considering we didn't have any shovels. We were using all kinds of objects—planks, pots, buckets, a trash can lid, gardening trowels—to clear away the snow. It would've gone much faster if we had proper snow shovels…but you can't have everything, can you?

Digging through the northern edge of the square took another three days. Those three days were some of the longest days I've ever experienced. In the thick of battle, the minutes and hours just melded into each other and flew by, but during a completely silent time like this… Knowing that we had to move faster, but having no ability to actually do so… It was maddening.

But on the Fourth of November, we finally got through the entire square. I was gathering my ammunition for my sniper rifle when Specialist Sutherland poked his head into my room and told me that the latest shift of diggers reported that they had reached the western street.

"Do we really get to leave, sir?" the Army Specialist asked hesitantly. We had all known that we were going to hold this place till death…so the concept of actually _leaving_ seemed pretty far-fetched, as I'm sure you could imagine.

"Well, that depends on what you mean by _leave,_" I replied, slinging my rifle across my back. "We may get to leave this house, yes… But we're still stuck in Kiev."

"That's fine by me, Gunny," Sutherland shrugged. "I'd rather die with everyone else than go out here…isolated and alone. I mean, I'd rather not die at all, obviously, but if I had to choose…you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do," I chuckled. "Besides, I kind of think that leaving like this will end up being a big _Fuck You_ to the Covies out there. They shed all this blood trying to take us down…and then we pack up and go before they can finish the job. Those Brutes are gonna be _pissed_."

Sutherland's face broke out into a faint smile. "I could sleep easy with that knowledge, sir."

"We all could," I nodded. "Now get your men organized. We're leaving in ten."

I went through the house and roused everyone who was sleeping, getting them ready to move. "We're bugging out in ten, boys!" I exclaimed, speaking loudly so everyone throughout the house could hear. "If there's anything here you'd like to take, grab it now! Bring enough rations and ammo to last you at least four days! If we don't reach friendly lines in four days, we won't get there at all, so don't over-pack!"

I went down to the basement to see what the status of the wounded was. Most of the wounded who were resting down here would be able to walk with help from their comrades. Only three of them—including Sergeant Adoni—needed to be carried, but we had taken care of that while we were digging ourselves out.

I gave the men ten minutes to get ready to leave. We were ready to go in six—I guess everyone was pretty eager to get the hell out of here.

"Before we go," I said to the twenty-odd men who were assembled before me in front of my house. "Let's have a moment of silence to remember those of us who won't be leaving this house. And let's also _thank_ this house. Maybe it's been our own personal Hell for the past two weeks, but we wouldn't be alive if not for thit house. It deserves our thanks."

I let the moment last about five seconds or so. After giving my own thanks to the house that had saved our lives, I shot my men and women a sudden glare. "Well, what are you lazy bastards just standing around for? We gotta get outta here before the Covies show up! _Get moving!_"

* * *

_**Author's Note**_

_Yeah, forgot to mention this in my last chapter, but I just want to wish this story Happy Birthday! Sure hasn't felt like a year..._

_-TheAmateur_


	84. VI Chapter 84: Scenic Route

Chapter Eighty-Four: Scenic Route

**November 5, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

Nic was strumming away on his guitar as we made our way through the rough canal my men had hewn through the drifts of snow covering the square, singing merrily in Ukrainian like he didn't have a care in the world. For all I knew, he _didn't_. The civilian had been the only one of us whose morale I hadn't had to worry about during our stay at my house. Everyone else had been steadily beaten down by the constant hammering of the Covie assaults, but the Roma man had simply continued to play his guitar, day after day. Even his lopsided grin hadn't vanished, yet.

I don't know how someone could go through so much without at least getting a little weary of it all, but Nic had managed to do just that. Even now, he led us through the streets of Darnytsia District like we were taking a stroll through a park during the spring. Nothing could faze him.

"These subway tunnels can get us across the river, right?" Specialist Sutherland asked me after we had had been pushing our way through the snow for nearly an hour. "I mean, that would be just grand, wouldn't it; getting there and finding out we had to turn back?"

"That _would_ ruin my day," I nodded in agreement. Sutherland chuckled with me and continued walking. I was relieved that he hadn't noticed that I didn't actually answer his question. To be honest, I don't know if Nic's plan of using the subway tunnels to get across the Dnieper River would pan out. But regardless of whether or not it would get us into western Kiev, the tunnels _would_ get us to the bank of the Dnieper without having to dig through several kilometers of snow. That would be a major plus.

We pushed through the snow as fast as we could. We made progress a lot faster through the smaller streets and back alleys than we had trying to dig through the square, but it still took us nearly three hours to reach the entrance to the subway station that Nic had told me about. The name of the place was nigh unpronounceable for me. Even after listening to the gypsy man say the name several times, I still couldn't manage it.

Whatever. _Subway station_ would do perfectly fine as a name.

We clambered down the stairs and into the depths of the station. It was pitch dark except for a few neon strip lights that flickered on the ceiling. We climbed over the turnstiles, pausing to help the three wounded whom we were bearing on stretchers, and headed into the station proper. It was a small space—a single, rectangular platform in the middle of the station which the people would wait on, capped by entrance and exit stairways on either end. The two tracks ran along either side of the platform. When a train pulled up, the people on the platform would be able to step right in.

Well, we _kind_ of did that... I mean, there was no train for us to step into. I'm sure the trains were burnt-out ruins, right now. No, we climbed down onto the defunct tracks and started walking. Again, there were no trains, so we had to hoof it. Yeah, it kinda sucked, but what can you do?

We used our personal lights to illuminate the way through the subway tunnel. I lost track of how long we walked through the dark passageways. I guess the one good thing about this place having no power was that we wouldn't get fried by the third rail, if there was one. Once or twice, we actually came across a sleeping swarm of drones. We tiptoed past them, careful not to wake them up.

We weren't able to move at a breakneck pace with the three wounded men who we had on stretchers. Even if we'd all been in good shape, it wasn't like we were walking down a paved road. We were walking down a glorified rail track.

Metros really hadn't changed all that much over the centuries. I mean, MagLev monorails were beginning to pop up in some major cities, but there really wasn't much more we could do with subways until we unlocked the secrets of anti-gravity technology. Although, at the rate our technology was progressing, especially after studying Covenant technology for all these years, it wouldn't be long before we had anti-grav units of our own.

Provided the Covenant didn't turn Earth into a cinder, that is. And what were the odds of that happening? Actually, no; don't answer that.

"How're they holding up, old friend?" I asked Apache as we passed through our third metro station, gesturing to Sergeant Adoni and the other two wounded men who were on the stretchers.

"Better, now that we're not out in the elements, anymore," my squadmate replied. "We should get some rest soon, though."

I kept us moving onwards until we reached Livoberezhna Station, which was the last stop on the Sviatoshynsko-Brovarska Line before the metro tunnel crossed the Dnieper River. My mission clock told me that it was around 2200 hours, anyway—we had been walking all day long without breaking for lunch. We needed a rest.

"Alright, boys, let's secure this station and turn in for the night," I ordered. "Tomorrow, we cross the river. We'll be having beers in northwest Kiev by tomorrow night if all goes well."

I posted sentries on the tracks and the entrances to the station, which would be relieved every two hours so that whoever was on watch would still be able to get a good night's rest.

It took less than a minute to secure this station. I took six men and made a quick sweep through the rest of the station on the surface. Thankfully, we didn't find any Covies up there, either.

Livoberezhna Station was a small metro station. Kiev had yet to upgrade its old metro system to a MagLev, so not very much had changed with the old stations. Sure, they all had received the benefits of 26th Century technology, but the overall appearance had changed very little. Eastern Europe seemed to always have one foot in modern day society and the other in the past.

This station was rather dull in terms of aesthetics. The only decorations were the flower-shaped ceramics on the pillars supporting the concrete ceiling. But I was perfectly fine with this; we just needed a place to stay the night and rest, not a luxury joint.

When I found a comfortable patch of concrete to lie down on, sleep claimed me within minutes. I didn't have any dreams, thank Christ. At least, none that I could remember. After what felt like around two minutes, I was woken up for the fourth and final watch by Private Kaufmann. Six hours had passed.

I thanked the Private and stood up, stretching my limbs. Six hours of sleep was a good amount of shuteye, but it would take a lot more than that to make up for all the sleep I've been losing, lately.

I passed the time by disassembling and reconstructing my sniper rifle, oiling it down and cleaning every millimeter of its insides and outsides. It had been a while since I had performed my spring cleaning on it; I hadn't exactly had much of a chance to worry about that kind of thing for the past couple of weeks.

I counted the minutes as they ticked on by. When it was 0725 hours, five minutes before the end of our resting period, I sent the two marines on sentry duty down on the tracks to reconnoiter the tunnel up ahead. I didn't want to run into any unwelcome surprises along the way.

The five minutes ticked by just like all the rest. I roused Apache and Sutherland. The Army Specialist and I went on to wake the rest of our motley force, while Apache tended to the wounded. We assigned another six men to act as stretcher bearers—we switched the stretcher bearers out every fifteen or so minutes.

My two sentries returned just as the rest of us were getting ready to descend back into the tunnel. "Bad news, Gunny!" Lance Corporal Donofrio hollered up to me as he climbed up the iron ladder and onto the platform.

"I don't like bad news, marine," I said to him. "What is it?"

"We can't cross the Dnieper through the tunnels, sir," Donofrio informed us.

I bit back a weary sigh—I had been expecting this. Hoping it wouldn't come to this, but expecting it all the same.

Donofrio went on, oblivious to my mental slump. "It looks like our boys thought ahead and planted charges on the tunnel ceiling further on in…either way, we can't go through. The whole thing is flooded."

A chorus of profanity swelled through the ranks, but quickly died down when I cleared my throat loudly. "Makes sense," I shrugged. "If we were going to blow the bridges, it would've made no sense to leave the tunnels intact. Worth a try, though…"

Instead of taking the party back down to the tracks, I led the men upstairs to the surface. We'd have to walk to the river and find a way across. And that is precisely what we did.

It took us another two hours to make our way through the short distance between Livoberezhna Station and the Dnieper River. When we emerged from the station, we walked right into another rain shower. The temperature had been climbing steadily since the blizzard. Though it still felt every bit as cold as it had before, it had obviously warmed enough for rain to fall, instead of more snow.

That meant two things, two very bad things—first off, the warmer temperature and the rain were clearing away the snow. And second, the Dnieper River—which had partially frozen over during the blizzard, was already thawing.

The river wasn't exactly flowing when we reached it, but it was easy to see the large cracks in the ice. Out in the middle of the river, the ice was the darkest—that meant it was at its thinnest, as it was easier to see the water below. Parts of the ice in that area had already melted, exposing the water down below.

"Come on, boys and girls; we have to do this fast!" I exclaimed.

"You sure about this, Sarge?" Private Kaufmann asked, hesitation painfully evident in his voice.

"This is our best option, right now," I quickly explained. I could have easily cussed the man out and ordered him to follow me, but a quick explanation would make things go much smoother, so I just had to be fast. "The only other way across the river right now is the Moscovskyi Bridge, but that crossing is in the north of Kiev. That is too far away to be viable—the Covenant are bound to have a large presence around it, anyway. Which leaves us with _this_ option…and as you can see, this option is not going to be an option much longer. Now, let's _go_."

I went first. I think the others were much more likely to go through with this if I went ahead of them. It was the same principle that applied to officers leading men into battle—soldiers were much more likely to follow an officer into battle if he or she was physically in _front_ of them. That would spur the attitude of _if he can do it, so can I_.

But if a leader just ordered his men forward…well, they would still probably go, but it just wouldn't be the same thing, you know?

And of course, this wasn't exactly a charge, either. I took it slowly, carefully testing the ice in front of me before taking another step forward. Several times, the ice cracked when I put my foot down, so I was forced to step elsewhere.

We had to stop when we reached the middle of the river. The ice was at its thinnest here, and it would not be able to support all twenty-odd of us.

I had taken several steps out onto the dark part of the ice when it suddenly started to crack and fall away. My left boot actually plunged into the ice-cold waters of the Dnieper before Gomez and Abruzzi yanked me back, saving me from going in all the way. Luckily, my boot was really just a boot-shaped piece of my armor, not a proper boot, so the water did not get inside. Now _that_ would have ruined my day.

"Alright...alright," I took another step back and gestured for the others to do the same. "We can't cross this in one big group; we'll have to break it up. I'm going first, but I want two volunteers to join me."

"Why not just play it safe and go one at a time?" Ismay, one of the artillerists, asked. It was a good question; fortunately, I had an equally good answer for it.

"When we take the wounded over, it'll be one guy on a stretcher and another two people carrying him. Three people. If the ice can hold three people, then we're golden. If it can't...well, let's see if it can hold three people before trying to think of alternatives."

Everyone was willing to go over with me, but I chose Gomez and Sheridan—an Army trooper and a marine, respectively. We made our way across very slowly. The ice groaned and creaked several times, but it managed to hold somewhat firm as we crossed. When we reached the gray patches of ice on the other side of the Dnieper, where it began to thicken once more, I gestured for Apache to send over Ostermann—the first wounded man—along with his two bearers.

"Slowly, _slowly,_" I urged the two stretcher-bearers. "You go down in this water, you'll be coming down with hypothermia in minutes."

We didn't really have a good way to warm people up if they got dunked into the ice-cold water, which was the main problem. It would have been a good idea, perhaps, to bring blankets, but we were traveling extremely light, trading comfort and security for pure speed. And besides, the blankets would be sopping messes in this rain, anyway.

And the rain was the main reason why we had to hurry up. I could actually see the water beating away the tall drifts of snow, gradually reducing them to slush. It would still be hard to get through, but the Covies would be able to get their armor through slush a lot easier than ten-foot-high mountains of snow. It was also weakening the ever-so-thin layer of ice covering the Dnieper River that was our only viable way to the other side.

Nature had saved us once; now it was telling us to take the initiative and save _ourselves,_ because it wasn't going to wait for a divine miracle. And I was trying my level best to do just that. Trying to save ourselves; not wait for a miracle, that is. You know what I mean.

Ostermann and Hopkinson—the second wounded marine—got over safely, to my relief. Apache personally helped another marine carry Sergeant Adoni over. It wasn't quite so smooth that time; the ice, already weak from bearing three groups of three, split and cracked even more under the weight of my squadmate, the wounded Sergeant, and the third marine helping Apache carry the stretcher. Apache actually stumbled once and nearly dropped Adoni, but he was able to regain his footing before he could go down.

After that brief episode, the rest my party crossed the ice individually. Though it took longer, it was much easier on the ice. One of the last men to cross got a foot and part of his leg wet, and another slipped and fell, but miraculously didn't break through. Other than that, the whole crossing was rather uneventful. That was very good; uneventful was always preferable to eventful. Maybe uneventful means a duller story, but it also means less potential death.

I got everyone organized once we crossed the middle of the Dnieper, and we steadily made our way across the rest of the melting ice and onto the western bank. Several of the men got down on their knees, cleared away the slushy snow, and actually kissed the earth. "Sweet, sweet western Kiev," one of them crowed. "Never thought I'd see you again."

"Too bad we're still behind enemy lines," Corporal Abruzzi remarked drily.

"Put the kibosh on the pessimism, Abruzzi," I said to the artillerist. Right now, we didn't need people making negative comments every step of the way. I wasn't an optimist at all—there weren't many optimists left, these days—but I was sensible enough to know that we'd be more likely to reach safety in one piece with a high morale. Maybe the Covies weren't able to move the bulk of the forces through the streets, but they still infested this part of the city. We had to tread carefully.

We stopped around 0100 to have a quick lunch so that we didn't keel over from exhaustion later in the day. It wasn't much—saltines, pepperoni, and water, for the most part. Once we finished up, I kept pushing us northwest. For the rest of the day, we made a wide arc around the center of town—General Eckhart's HQ had been located at the Mariyinsky Palace, so it was logical to assume that the Covenant had a significant presence there, recognizing the centre of the city as a useful organizing and staging ground.

We crossed down into northern Holosiiv—the southernmost district of Kiev on this side of the Dnieper, as well as one of the largest in the city—if not _the_ largest. By the time nightfall came back around, we weren't too far away from Solom'yansk District, which was directly northwest of Holosiiv. Solom'yansk was also the only thing separating us from Svyatoshyn District, which was still in UNSC hands. If all went well, we could be behind our own lines by tomorrow night.

Had we been able to use the tunnels, we could have been there by tonight, or tomorrow morning...but again; you can't have everything.

We took shelter in a mechanic's garage and had a meal that passed for our dinner before turning in. I posted sentries, as usual, and I was roused for the fourth and final watch. We didn't run into anything; the Covies seemed to be remaining holed up until the slush subsided a little more. A few more hours of this rain, and the streets would probably be clear enough for vehicles.

"It'll be good to see the others, again," Apache murmured as we roused everyone the following morning. He munched on a protein bar, speaking between mouthfuls.

"Yeah," I nodded in agreement. "This is the second time I've been separated from the squad this year—I'm beginning to make it a habit. A really bad, annoying, deadly habit."

"We'll be fine," Apache asserted, finishing up his protein bar. "Remember that one time when you, Cajun, and I were stuck together in a tank, back on that one colony all those years ago?"

"Salamis II," I said the name of the colony fondly. I would have shuddered at the mention of it, or at least added some colorful profanity had Salamis been brought up in the past, but it had been a decade since that harrowing experience. Time dulled the gory details and left me with memories of smashing through barrier after Covie barrier in an M1-Delta—pretty much every macho man's wet dream.

I forced myself not to think of the blood that had stained the sidewalks of Rustenpoort City, or the thousands of slaughtered men, women, and children who had once lived there. At least we had saved that kid we found in that one house…it wasn't much, but it was better than nothing, I guess.

"We survived that, so we can survive this, too," Apache declared, tossing away the wrapper of his protein bar and hefting his bag of medical supplies, slinging it over one shoulder.

"Amen," I chuckled, allowing myself a small grin as we started to move out. I never stopped loving these polarized faceplates; I could make all the goofy faces I wanted—or, in this case, crack a grin—and no one would be the wiser.

The rain had been persistent throughout the night, and the streets were clear enough for us to make some decent headway. Unfortunately, we started spotting Covie patrols. On two occasions, we had to take out a group of grunts in order to remain under the radar. If the Elites were still running the show, they'd have probably noticed the disappearances and investigated, but I don't think the Brutes really cared. What were a few missing grunts to them?

We kept moving from alley to alley, street to street, for the remainder of the morning. When we broke for lunch, we were practically sitting on the Holosiiv-Solom'yansk border. We could probably get across all of Solom'yansk today if we really tried. I wanted to _really_ try; the Covies would probably have a heavier presence in the district bordering UNSC lines, and I didn't want to have to set up camp in the middle of all that.

And the sooner we got moving again, the better. The Covies were beginning to crawl back out of the woodwork, once more. I wanted to move before the streets were infested with them again.

We didn't break for lunch in any normal building, this time. Well, it had once _been_ a normal building—it had been a perfectly normal office building in its prime, but now it had gone horizontal. It must have been knocked over during the constant plasma barrages as the Covies advanced up through western Kiev to press Svyatoshyn's lines.

Now, it was lying across the road that we had been making our way north on. We could easily go around it, but we were hungry for lunch, so I just ordered everyone forward and we took up temporary residence in the place.

While the others started breaking out their rations for the day, I took three marines and swept through the rest of the building. It was almost clear, although _almost_ never won the pot in a game of poker.

We stumbled across a pair of sleeping grunts. I didn't even notice them until they had been startled awake by Private Davis clearing his throat. They had been napping under overturned desks, which was why we had gone right past them.

They squealed as they saw us. I whipped out my magnum, but one of the other marines had already hosed the two ticks with his assault rifle. Their methane tanks sputtered and exploded, incinerating the pile of desks.

It turned out those grunts had friends in here, and that explosion attracted them. Another group of grunts appeared from behind a bunch of cubicle walls. They came from the floor below the one we were on—though, because the building was on its side, they were pretty much climbing through a broken-down wall. I tried to ignore the fact that the wall was actually a floor; that was just too disorienting.

Then the Brute that was in charge of the grunts just burst right through an undamaged section of the floor, barreling right at us. And behind the Brute, down towards what had used to be the ground floor of the building, I could see a Hunter pair rising from the wreckage, steadily starting to lumber towards us.

"Oh, _shit!_" Davis swore at the top of his lungs. The three leathernecks opened fire on the Brute. Davis and Strauss, armed with assault rifles, kept up a steady stream of lead, while Private Currie racked the pump of her shotgun and took aim.

I quickly pulled my sniper rifle from my back and leveled it at the charging Brute. The ape was close enough that I was able to fire without going through the trouble of aiming through the scope. The shot caught the Brute in the chest, knocking out its shields and dazing it momentarily.

The Brute's mouth opened wide in a bloodthirsty howl. It faced us again, hunched over, its fists almost brushing the ground. It was berserking. It gave a maniacal laugh and struck an overturned filing cabinet, sending it flying, before leaping right at us.

Strauss and Davis backed up, keeping their weapons trained on the Covie, but the Currie stood her ground. When the Brute was about to crush her to a pulp, she raised her shotgun and blew a hole right through its chest.

It thudded down on top of her, motionless and bleeding profusely from the wound that had taken its life. Currie, still trapped under the corpse, grunted and muttered something unintelligible, though we all got the gist of what she was saying.

The three of us heaved at the Brute's corpse and flipped it off of Currie, allowing her to get back up to her feet. We then quickly mopped up the handful of grunts that decided to stick around.

The two Hunters had been gunning for us for the duration of this fight. They started firing pulses of energy from their shoulder cannons as they got close, tearing chunks of the building down wherever they hit.

"Time to go!" I shouted. I sent the three marines on their way back. We ran our asses off, vaulting over desks, cubicle walls, chairs, filing cabinets, office supplies, and all the debris that had littered the place after the building came down. The Hunters were like juggernauts—they barreled right through anything in their path, storming after us.

"Out! Out! _Everybody out!_" I screamed as we came crashing back through the former floor into the room where everyone was resting.

"Why…?" Sutherland started to ask, but he didn't get very far.

"_Hunters fucking Hunters!_" Strauss shouted, cutting the Army Specialist off. I'm sure he meant 'Hunters! Fucking Hunters!' but he was talking extremely fast. But even if people didn't understand what he was saying, the growls of the Hunters and the explosions caused by their mounted weapons were enough to get the message across.

"We got a Hunter pair gunning for us!" I exclaimed. "We need to get back onto the streets; we're toast if they corner us in here!"

Within ten seconds, everyone was up and grabbing their weapons. I kept on shouting at the top of my lungs until my throat was raw. Apache got the wounded out as fast as they could.

The rest of the party hauled ass out of the collapsed building as the Hunters burst through the walls and floors into the space we had stopped for lunch. I had refused to leave until everyone else was out, and in the future I would both regret and be thankful for that decision.

Apache was the only one left with me—he had waited for me after getting the wounded out of the building. "_Scar, let's go!_" he seemed to shout in slow motion as the leading Hunter opened fire.

I was already crashing into Apache as the blob of green energy roiled towards him—my instincts and reflexes were running on the fastest form of autopilot. I shoved Apache out through a hole in the wall and onto the street as the fuel rod shot slammed into the wall where he had been standing a moment earlier.

The blast hurled me back into a desk. I hit my head on the edge of the metal working space—even though I was wearing a helmet, my head still got a good bruising. I groaned quietly, trying to pick myself up. I was seeing double, and I could hear throbbing in my ears.

I struggled to get to my feet, but there was a blinding flash of green, and suddenly the world collapsed on top of me.

Everything was dark. Faintly, I could actually hear a wraith tank firing its mortar. The Covies had armor, here?

I could hear the two Hunters lumbering through the room, knocking aside anything in their path. They were getting closer, getting louder…

I doubted they'd bother to go after me, buried under all this rubble…but they'd be able to slam my party from behind. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

I tried to move, but the weight on top of me was too great. If not for the desk I had hit my head on, the rubble would have fallen all the way onto me, and I'd be little more than a bloodstain on the floor. But I had gotten hit again pretty hard by all that…by all…all that…

I shook my head slowly, trying to finish that thought but I couldn't seem to concentrate. I was losing consciousness.

Unacceptable. I had to get out…had to get the men to safety…had to…_had to_…

I could faintly hear gunfire, but that blurred and fainted away until all that was left was the sound of my own heartbeat. And that, too, dissolved into the darkness.


	85. VI Chapter 85: ONI Secrets

Chapter Eighty-Five: ONI Secrets

**November 8, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

I don't think I had any dreams.

It was a long, dark, dreamless sleep that I had been stuck in for...I don't even know how long. A few hours, I would expect. I took a quick look down at myself, surveying my body for any injuries. I found nothing.

Well, nothing _new, _at least.

I was in a room with metal walls. It looked like a normal barracks quarters, and I was on the floor. I had been sleeping on a fire blanket.

I let out a low grunt, pushing myself up to my knees, and then onto my feet. I winced as I ran a hand through my hair; there was a tender spot near my right temple. I must have cracked my head on that desk harder than I thought. That couldn't have helped things…

As I stepped towards the door, I noticed that the cot in the room wasn't empty. A boy was sleeping in it. He looked to be around fourteen or fifteen years old; close-cropped black hair, olive skin, somewhat tall. He had a bloody rag tied around his shoulder, indicating that he had been hit. I could hear him breathing, and his chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm, so he didn't seem to be in any danger of kicking off. I then saw his fluttering eyes and knew that he was only sleeping.

I frowned. Civilians had been evacuated from the city a long time ago; who could this boy possibly be? And how did I end up in the same room as him? Who brought me here? That boy obviously wasn't alone. Maybe Nic hadn't been the only civilian to survive out here.

I took another step towards the door, but hesitated. Why not just ask the boy in the cot what the hell was going on? Obviously he had to know _something_.

I stepped back over to the cot, looking down at the sleeping kid. "Hey, kid...you hear me, son?" I murmured, reaching down to shake the kid's shoulder.

I had barely even brushed the boy's arm when his eyes suddenly snapped open and he seized my wrist. I grunted in pain; the kid had a fucking grip of steel! In a flash, the kid had me pinned to the ground, his knee pressing down on the back of my neck. The whole thing had lasted less than two seconds.

"What the hell, kid?" I spluttered, trying to get back up. I wasn't able to; this kid was just too strong, somehow. No matter how I moved, I couldn't even budge him. "I was just trying to-"

But the boy was already off of me and apologizing. "Oh, jeez, I'm sorry! I'm sorry; whenever someone wakes me up so suddenly like that, I always get startled! Are you alright?" he grabbed my shoulder and, with only one hand, hauled me to my feet, dusting off my fatigues. "Yeah, you seem alright. Nasty little knock on the head you got yourself, there, eh?"

"Uh...yeah..." I had no idea how to react to this kid. Superhuman monster one second, apologetic teenager the next. I've seen bipolar people who startled me less than this kid had just done. And hearing him speak made me start to wonder who the hell he was. We were in Kiev, but this kid didn't even have a trace of Ukrainian in his voice. He sounded more English than anything else. "Mind if I ask you who the hell you are?"

"I could ask you the same thing," the boy retorted. "There weren't supposed to be any Helljumpers in this area." He made a face. "There weren't supposed to be any _humans _in this area, come to think of it."

"My squad and I were sent in before eastern Kiev fell. We were separated and I was trapped across the river with a platoon's-worth of men," I explained. "They were with me when..." the green flash of the exploding fuel rod shot went off behind my eyes for a moment, "When I was...my men…where are my men?"

The boy held up a hand. "Hey, hey, ease up on the questions, there, mate! Don't want to overload your circuitry right after you wake up. Save your questions for my team leader—he'll give you better answers than me. Trust me on that one."

"So, there are more of you?"

The boy nodded. "They should be up by now; they're going to head out for a raid pretty soon. If you're lucky, you might even get to tag along! C'mon, let's get out of this room. About time I got on my feet, anyway; one stupid exploding needler round to the shoulder, and my team leader forces me to stay in bed for three days. You have no _idea _how much torture that is. I'm Robin, by the way," the kid held out a hand.

I shook it, giving him my name in return. "Garris. Gunnery Sergeant Garris," I started to give my unit, but refrained from doing so. He was a kid; _Archangel Squad, Naval Special Warfare Group Six, ONI Black Ops Division _wouldn't mean jack shit to him. It wouldn't mean jack shit to a lot of the rank and file, either, come to think of it…

"Yeah, I know who you are, already," the kid chuckled, stating my full unit, surprising me yet again. "Read your dogtags and looked you up in the database."

I shook the kid's hand, but alarm bells were going off in my mind. There was no possible way the kid could know my unit—ONI's Black Ops division was one of the most airtight departments in the entire UNSC Defense Force. "How...?"

"Oh, enough chit-chat; if I stay in this room one more second, I'll lose my bloody mind," Robin ignored my question, turning the door knob and shoving the door open, stepping into the room outside.

The room outside looked like your average rec room. It had two round tables, a couch, a long counter running along one of the walls, and a flat-top stove. A pile of packaged MREs was haphazardly stacked against the wall next to the stove. There were also several more doors along the other walls—more sleeping quarters, presumably.

The room wasn't devoid of life, either. There were four other people in it; two girls and two boys. They were all around the same age as Robin; early to mid-teens, by the looks of it. I noticed that they were all dressed in fatigues and the two girls had military-length hair.

I have no idea how or why, but they seemed like they were military; their appearance and the weapons lying on the floor attested to that. Three of them were huddled around the table, a deck of playing cards laid out in front of them. The fourth was sacked out on the couch, fast asleep.

One of the kids at the table—a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, dark-skinned teen who looked around fifteen or sixteen years old—twisted in his chair, laying his cards face-down, fixing us with a steely glare. "I thought I told you not to leave the room," he said.

"Yes, well, first; that Helljumper we rescued just woke up, and second; I don't feel like listening to you today," Robin replied cheerily, flashing a wide grin.

"Either you get your ass back in there, or I'll _tie _you down to the bed," the black kid started to stand up.

"Oh, fight me," Robin rolled his eyes.

One of the girls at the table—the tall, blond-haired one—gave a sardonic snort. "Tyrone fighting Robin. Gee, I wonder who'd win? I hope you're taking bets, because I think I'll…"

I stood there, somewhat awkwardly, listening to them jab at one another. For at least a minute, it was as if I wasn't even there; they just kept on arguing with each other.

That was when I heard it. The other girl—the shorter, red-haired one—said, "Call yourself a Spartan, Em; get in there and teach him who the real-"

"_Spartans?_" I exclaimed. _No way._ "You kids are _Spartans?_" As unlikely as it seemed, it made sense. Why else would there be _children_ in the military...and how else could that one kid have pinned my ass to the floor with no effort at all on his part?

I just stared, slack-jawed. These kids were like a dysfunctional extended family, not like a team of military operatives, let alone…let alone _Spartans_. For all I knew, they incredibly efficient in battle; but off the battlefield, they squabbled like...well, like _teenagers_.

I hadn't realized that Spartans could display emotions without spontaneously combusting.

"What, you didn't realize that until now, old man?" the blond-haired girl grunted, looking up from her cards.

I cocked an eyebrow at the 'old man', but didn't retaliate. Even _I_ considered myself an old man. "Seeing as the Spartans have been around since before you were born...no, I _didn't _guess that until now."

"Can't fault him there; we're not supposed to exist," Robin shrugged. "Though I don't think ONI really cares quite as much about our secrecy, anymore... I mean, why else would they drop us into Mombasa and Kiev along with the regulars? That's not exactly conducive to maintaining a healthy covert status of nonexistence, if you ask me."

So, they were some sort of secret, newly-created generation of Spartans..._child _Spartans... I mean, I knew the original Spartans had all been kids, too, at some point...but it was an impossible thing to picture. Until now. And that picture was pretty unnerving.

"What are you, Gunny?" the black teen—who was clearly the leader of this motley group—asked me. "Tech specialist, squad leader, demolitions expert?"

"I'm a sniper," I replied evenly. "Been one for over ten years, been a sharpshooter even longer than that—look, where the hell am I? Where are my men?"

"The guys you were traveling with made it to Sviatoshyn," the teenager in charge explained. "We wasted those two Hunters, which allowed them to escape; they were already gone when we found you under all that rubble, so we had to bring you with us. You're currently in an auxiliary government bomb shelter near the parliament building in Pechersk District. The center of town."

"Why are you still out here? Why haven't you rejoined our lines in Sviatoshyn?"

"Because_ that_ dumbass got wounded almost as soon as we got here," the black teenager gestured at Robin, the one who I had met upon waking up. "And the Covies have a large presence along the Sviatoshyn border—it was a miracle that your friends managed to get through at all. At this point, it would be pointless to go anywhere near it. But, now that you're on your feet again, we can get back to doing some proper raids."

"Wait, you're not thinking of _bringing _him, are you?" the blond-haired girl asked the dark-skinned Spartan accusingly. "He's not one of us. He'll get someone killed."

"He's over forty years old; he's about the farthest thing from new meat we'll ever see," the black kid countered.

"I looked him up in the PERSCOM databases," Robin admitted, and when the others gave him sidelong glares he simply shrugged. "What, you really expected me to lie in bed and do nothing but wank for three whole days? Give me a break! And if PERSCOM _really_wanted to keep other people from reading their files, they should at least _pretend _to make their firewalls harder to breach. Anyway, his CSV says that he's been in the service since Harvest. Not just the five-year campaign, mind you, but the actual first contact with the Covies. He's a survivor, this one."

"He's still a Helljumper, though," the blond-haired girl reasserted adamantly. "They all hate us. Why should we trust _him _with our lives?"

"I owe the Spartans my life," I replied calmly. "We're all Humans, here, aren't we?"

"Except for Robin; he's just hot air," the red-haired girl remarked, which prompted a swift 'up yours' from the other boy.

"Okay, fine; so what?" the blonde girl still refused to give in. "So maybe he's survived a lot. He's still never fought with us; _we_ aren't your average marines or ODSTs. And besides, we already _have _a sniper," she nodded to the sandy-haired boy who was sleeping on the couch. I think it was a real testament to his ability to sleep that all of the commotion hadn't woken him up.

"Yes, but no spotter," the team leader replied. "Normally I would have Sam do it, but with Robin wounded, we're down one for today, so I need her up with us. And I'm not leaving our sniper alone again. Last time that happened back in Mombasa, he nearly got fried by banshees, as I'm sure you all remember. Besides, Mister Garris here happens to be a Gunnery Sergeant. You don't make it to Gunnery Sergeant because you don't know one end of a rifle from the other. It's settled. The Helljumper is coming with us. We'll see what he's made of."

"_Fine,_" the blonde girl snapped. "Bring him. But I won't trust him until we're back here, alive. _All _of us."

"Fair enough," I shrugged. The blonde girl shot me an icy glare and tossed her cards down onto the table, standing up and pushing her way out of the room. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway outside.

"She gets a little hot under the collar with Helljumpers," the dark-skinned teen apologized, stepping forward and holding out his hand. "Survive a raid with us, and she won't give you quite so much trouble. I'm Tyrone, Tyrone-G083. I'm in charge here."

I shook the kid's hand, fervently hoping that he didn't squeeze too hard. He could turn my hand into a maraca if he wasn't careful. But that didn't happen. I think he purposely made sure he barely used any strength in his handshake, and in doing so it felt like I was just shaking the hand of a strong man.

"I know you're probably bursting with questions right now, so I'll just tell you that we're not the Spartans you hear about in the rumors and stories. We're cheaper, more expendable versions of them…bred for suicide missions, essentially," Tyrone said this in a nonchalant manner, suggesting that he had already accepted his role in the universe. "High-risk missions that are too dangerous or unconventional for ONI to send in Helljumpers. Suicide missions are what we do best. However, right now I would rather live, as would you, I'm sure. _So, _I know you have been through the mill, I know you aren't green...but follow my orders. If you don't, it could ruin the team dynamic and get us all killed."

"Long as I get back to my unit in one piece, I'll do whatever the hell you want," I replied.

"We have an understanding, then. Good," Tyrone nodded approvingly. "Now, the rest of the team; you're gonna want to know who you're fightin' alongside. That fine specimen of temperance and patience who just walked out on you was Emma-G132; she handles our heavy weapons, when we have them, and demolitions. Try not to stay on her bad side for too long, eh?"

There were grunts of agreement from the other two Spartans in the room. The sandy-haired one sleeping on the couch made no comment.

"Now, uh...that there's Samantha-G113," Tyrone gestured to the red-haired girl, who in turn gave me a cool nod. "Call her Sam, please. Team rule. She's our scout; stealth is where she's at home...she's an Emerald Cove girl, Gunny. Don't piss _her _off, either."

"That's it? Stealth? That's all you're going to mention?" Sam snickered. "I can break you apart in hand-to-hand, and you know it."

Tyrone cut her off by clearing his throat loudly and moved on, glancing at Robin. "Robin-G227. I can see you've already met him. He's our resident jackass-"

"The proper term would be 'technical specialist'," Robin sniffed. "But, all things considered, I suppose 'jackass' works, too."

"Now, _him _you can piss off anytime you want," Tyrone chuckled. He then pointed to the sleeping boy on the couch, who—except for his rising and falling chest—hadn't moved this whole time. "And Sleeping Beauty over there is our sniper, Alex-G004. He doesn't talk a heck of a lot, but put him behind the scope of a sniper rifle, and he's one of the deadliest forces of nature you'll ever meet."

"Of course, take _away _the sniper rifle, and he's kind of a pussy," Robin quirked.

The red-haired girl frowned, two bright spots of color appearing on her cheeks. "You can shut the hell up; he's not a-"

Robin cut off Sam by making kissing noises.

"Alright, that's enough," Tyrone silenced Robin with another steely glare before Sam could take a swing at him. "Everyone gear up; we're bugging out in five. There's talk of a Covie supply hub over in Holosiiv District; we're gonna go and give them a warm, proper welcome to Kiev. And Robin, even before you ask, the answer is _no_. Your ass is staying right here. If I see you out there, I'm gonna personally-"

"C'mon, you don't actually expect me to sit in this bloody room for a whole 'nother day, do you?" Robin implored the dark-skinned Spartan. "I don't understand what the big deal is; Alex had half his _chest_ blown off back in the Ural Mountains, and _he _was fine..." he complained, plucking at the bandages wrapped around his shoulder.

"Because one of the soldiers we were with happened to be a combat surgeon, and he got medical attention almost immediately after we got back," Tyrone countered. "Here, we're trapped behind enemy lines. If you go down, you _stay _down. The biofoam will have your shoulder right as rain by tomorrow, and until then you're not going anywhere. Now get back into bed and save me the trouble of having to knock you out."

Robin was silent for a second before giving a resigned sigh and trudging back through the door to the crash room. "I'm going on the next one, no matter _what _you say," he muttered as the door closed.

"Well, that didn't go too badly," the team leader shrugged, crouching down and picking up his shotgun. He strode over to the couch and circled behind it, crouching down again and gripping its bottom. He then tilted the couch forward, flipping the sleeping boy down onto his face.

The sandy-haired Spartan woke up with a surprised cry as he hit the floor, clutching his head and blinking several times. "What the hell was _that _for?" he spluttered, rolling onto his back and squinting into the lights, holding a hand to his forehead.

"Sleepin' on the job, buttercup," Tyrone replied, hauling the smaller Spartan up by his shoulders. "Suit up. You too, Gunny. Unless you feel you aren't up for a raid?"

"No, I'm fine," I said. I was still a little groggy from waking up recently, but it was nothing a little fresh air wouldn't clear up.

I followed the three Spartans out of the room and into the corridor outside. The corridor ran a good length, turning into a ramp that ascended up out of sight, presumably to the entrance of…well, of whatever this place was. The armory was right before the ramp.

The blonde Spartan—Em—was already walking out, fully clad in some sort of power armor. It wasn't MJOLNIR—the armor the original Spartans wore—but some sort of simpler armor. It was yellowish in color and was completed with the large, dome-like EVA helmet.

The red-haired girl—Sam—noticed me glancing at the armor. "SPI: semi-powered infiltration armor," she explained, rapping one of the armor plates with her knuckles. "Only thing it's good for is stealth and deflecting pebbles."

"Same as mine...only minus the stealth," I said, pulling my familiar, battered ODST armor off of the wall rack where it had been placed. Maybe I went too far; my armor had saved my ass on more occasions than I cared to count...but in the grand scheme of things, it really didn't do much against plasma.

Nothing we have really did a whole lot against plasma.

I slid into my armor, locking the different plates together until they formed the full suit of armor that I had fought so many battles in. It felt good to be back in black—I've been wearing some kind of battle armor since I was sixteen years old; walking around in fatigues or even dress uniforms always made me feel…naked, in a way. Kind of like how Abe Lincoln would feel if you jacked his top hat.

I pulled my sniper rifle off of the rack and slipped it onto my back, tucking several extra clips of ammunition into my belt. I whisked my magnum back into its leg holster after making sure it was loaded and ready to go.

Now ready for battle, I ducked out of the armory and back into the hall. The four teenagers, all clad in their armor and armed to the teeth, were already waiting in the lift.

"Anything else you'd like to keep us waiting for?" Em asked me as I stepped into the lift, the doors dinging shut behind me, her voice saccharine sweet with contempt.

"Nope, I'm good," I replied as the lift started to move upwards, completely unfazed by the Spartan's attitude. She was still downright friendly compared to some of the characters I've encountered in ONI.

"Alright, people, keep your eyes peeled for hostiles along the way," Tyrone advised us. "Covies are starting to come back out of their hidey-holes now that the blizzard has passed us by. Be ready for anything out there."

The lift lurched to a stop and the doors hissed open, revealing a short corridor illuminated by red strip lights set into the ceiling. The five of us walked down to the other end, which was blocked up by a large stack of what looked like wooden crates. The Spartans cleared away the crates, allowing us to step out of the corridor and into a partially-incinerated warehouse.

I noticed that the entrance to the corridor wasn't even some kind of hidden doorway; it was just a huge, ragged hole in the wall—the Spartans must have blasted their way in and used the crates to cover up the damage.

We all had one last chance to double check our weapons and equipment.

"Sam, you're on deep recon," the squad leader motioned for Sam, the red-haired Spartan, to move out. "Haul ass to Holosiiv and locate that supply hub. We'll be behind you. You give me a holler when you catch wind of anything. Good luck."

"You got it, Chief," Sam swiped two fingers across her faceplate—no idea why—and vanished. And I don't mean slipped-into-the-shadows vanished, I mean _vanished_ vanished. Her armor shimmered for a second or two before turning completely invisible.

"Active camouflage?" I arched an eyebrow, impressed.

"Not exactly active camouflage, but its something similar. It's this junk's one saving grace," Tyrone grunted, patting his own armor before getting back to the matter at hand. "Em, you're with me, as usual. Alex, you get the Helljumper."

"Wonderful," the Spartan team's sniper sighed.

"Play nice," Tyrone growled. "Good luck, everyone. See you in Holosiiv." With that, the team leader took off with the ill-tempered girl, leaving me alone with the sniper.

"Alright, c'mon," the young Spartan muttered, leading the way out to the streets. He glanced at the sniper rifle I had on my back as I followed him. "Hope you know how to use that thing, old man."

What the hell have I gotten myself into _this_ time?

* * *

_**Author's Note**_

_Nothing to say, really, except that I've been waiting for this...for a very, very long time..._

_Hehehe_

_-TheAmateur_


	86. VI Chapter 86: Eagle Eye

Chapter Eighty-Six: Eagle Eye

**November 8, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

There was no longer any sign of the two Spartans that had left before us. Their camouflage-capable armor had allowed them to vanish into thin air.

Unfortunately, my armor did not include such stealth capabilities. It would have been nice if I'd had the ability to turn invisible... Being unseen is always a useful attribute in my line of work. I've managed well enough without the use of technology, though. Stealth was where I was at home, as well.

Back during my Helljumper sniper training in the Ural Mountains, I had been flown out to a large field of tall grass. The senior drill instructor and the camp commandant had stood on a wooden platform in the middle of the field, and two instructors were stationed in the tall grass. I had to crawl through the grass towards the platform with my sniper rifle and take out a target that had been set up over the platform. The senior drill instructor and the commandant had binoculars, and they were constantly scanning for any signs of movement. When they thought they spotted me, they'd contact the two men in the grass, and they'd investigate.

If I was discovered by the sweepers, I'd be washed out and I'd have to take the test again. But I had taken my time. By the time I shot out the styrofoam target and was ordered to reveal myself, I had gotten within five meters of the center. A job well done, if I do say so myself. The looks on the instructors' faces when I rose out of the grass less than twenty feet in front of them had been priceless.

But even if I had an affinity for stealthy movement... I still couldn't help but be little envious of those Spartans' chameleon armor.

_Spartans_...

I shook my head again. I was still having a lot of trouble reconciling myself with reality on this one; the teenagers were clearly the augmented supersoldiers we were all familiar with...but it just looked so _wrong_. Spartans were cold, emotionless, empty suits of armor. Wickedly good at what they did, and I was eternally grateful for their efforts...but they were machines. Their humanity might not have been nonexistent or gone, but it was severely suppressed.

And then I see these young Spartans, part of some kind of new generation of supersoldier. I see them arguing, I see them laughing, I see them cracking jokes...doing things normal teenagers did to each other. The whole spectacle just looked...not right. Especially to a Helljumper. And I was one of the much more moderate members of my outfit—I can only imagine how some of the hardline anti-Spartan ODSTs would react.

"So if the big and famous Spartans are SPARTAN-IIs...what does that make you? Spartan Threes?" I asked the Spartan sniper, mostly to break the silence. We had been flitting from building to building for over two hours, now, without exchanging any kind of conversation. I was used to being on a squad of talkative Helljumpers—and besides, I was practically bursting with questions.

"Yes," Alex, the sniper, replied. I had been half-joking, just trying to spark a conversation. Turned out I was right. How about that.

"How big is your unit?" I asked next. I had always known that the number of Spartans had always been a low one…the number of Spartans we _knew_ about, at least. How many more were being hidden under the folds of ONI's cloak?

The kid didn't seem like he was going to answer at first, but he then gave a light shrug. "There were over three-hundred of us in Gamma Company, which was a little more than usual," he replied.

My brow furrowed a little in a light frown. "Gamma Company? Why not Alpha Company?"

"Maybe because Alpha and Beta Companies came before us? Gamma doesn't come first in the Greek Alphabet, last I checked," Alex spoke to me like I was a five-year-old. He then took a breath "They churned out Alpha and Beta back in the '30s, and then us in the early '40s."

"But then wouldn't that make you, what…Spartan _Fives_, not IIIs?"

"No, no," Alex shook his head. "We're just the third generation of the same group, the same program. The differences between SPARTAN-IIs and SPARTAN-IIIs are vast and numerous, but the three SPARTAN-III companies are identical—our augmentations are much better than the II's, and there are more of us. On the other hand, we don't get the MJOLNIR armor or the bottomless funding. We're cheap knock-offs, basically. The old Spartans are too valuable to waste on suicide missions, so that's why ONI started trying to mass-produce us. Once they finished with Alpha Company, they moved on to Beta…and now it's our turn." The sniper hesitated for a moment, then added, "I really shouldn't be telling you this."

I gave a shrug. "If ONI really cared so much about preserving your secrecy right now, I don't think they'd be sending you into battle alongside us mere mortals. The Covies are on Earth…they're throwing everything they've got into the pot."

We picked our way through the blackened, charred remains of a stadium. Some of the snow from the recent blizzard lingered on top of all the rubble, like a dusting of powdered sugar.

It covered the bodies, too. The Covies had cleared away their dead, but there were dozens of human corpses littering the rubble, frozen in the positions they had died in. They hadn't started to decompose yet, due to the cold weather, but they definitely weren't recent kills. Their skin was bone white, their lips and extremities blue, their battle armor encrusted with frost and icicles. Nature had claimed them.

At least the jackals could eat them while they were like this. That was probably the thinnest silver lining in the history of Man, but…eh, I don't know…

I tried to ignore the bodies as we made our way through the piles of wreckage, but it wasn't easy.

"Covies had scarabs reinforcing their armored thrust," Alex gestured at the carnage all around us. "These men tried to hold this stadium, so the scarabs just pointed, aimed, and blew the whole place to hell. I watched it all happen from that building across the street," he pointed at an office building in the near distance.

I listened to the sniper. He had a light accent that I recognized, but couldn't quite lay my finger on. At first it sounded Aussie or English, but it really wasn't. It was harsher and more clipped than either of those accents. It was one of those accents that was just interesting to listen to, no matter what the person was saying.

We made our way back onto the streets.

"Does your team always fragment itself like this?" I asked after another long stretch of silence.

Alex-G004 kicked a pebble, sending it clacking down the pitted, ruined remains of the sidewalk. "Not usually, no. This is only for the sake of speed—once Sam finds that Covie supply hub, we'll regroup and hit them with our full…" the Spartan stopped dead in his tracks, suddenly, falling silent.

"What is it?" I didn't raise my voice above a whisper.

"Apes," the Spartan-III hissed. "Small pack, by the sound of it."

I arched an eyebrow at that; I couldn't hear a thing. Of course, I wasn't the one with biologically enhanced hearing, so I was willing to trust him on this one. I glanced at the ruins next to us—they had once been an apartment duplex, before the Covies had renovated it into charred rubble. Luckily, portions of the second floor were still intact.

"Let's grab the high ground, shall we?" I motioned to the windows up above. "Make the Brutes pay a toll for using this sidewalk."

"I like the way you think," the kid depolarized his faceplate so that I could see his grin. He strode over to the duplex and kicked a hole through the wall, inviting me inside.

"That works, too," I chuckled. I had been heading towards the actual entrance further back down the street, but now I used the makeshift entrance the Spartan had just created.

I made my way through the rubble and found the stairs, climbing up to the second floor. The floorboards creaked precariously—there wasn't a whole heck of a lot holding me up, right now. Most of the duplex's support structure had been knocked down or burned away. The second floor was little more than a ledge of splintered floorboards hugging the second-story windows. Luckily, the stairs connected to this ledge of floor.

Alex was already crouching behind one of the windows. I don't know how he'd gotten up there so fast without using the stairs, but I didn't really have time to wonder. I unslung my sniper rifle and took up a position on the other side of the wooden remnants of the second floor, waiting patiently for those Brutes that Alex had heard to arrive.

We remained stone-still for around fifteen or so seconds until the first Brute rounded the corner across the street, beginning to head down the sidewalk across from us. Alex shifted his aim and curled his finger around the trigger.

"_Wait,_" I hissed, holding up a hand. "Wait for the rest of them to show."

If we attacked too early, the rest of the patrol would simply fall back. If we caught them all out in the open, though, this would end very differently. I then instructed the Spartan to start at the far right while I started at the far left, and we'd work our way towards the middle. This was to prevent both of us from sniping the same target.

Around half a minute later, a Brute chieftain—obviously in command of the pack— rounded the corner, surrounded by his bodyguards. They brought up the center of the patrol, with the lower-ranking apes in front and behind. I swore in my mind; I had been expecting the patrol to be led by a Brute captain, not a full chieftain.

"Alright, change of plan..." I murmured. "We'll hit that chieftain first. Start in the center and work your way out to the wings."

This time, it was okay for both of us to snipe the same target because the chieftain's shields would be much stronger than those of the lesser Brutes—two headshots in quick succession could handle it.

But the Spartan had other plans. "No," he shook his head. "You start on the left. I'll handle the command group."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"If you say so," I shrugged, centering my aim on a Brute captain bringing up the rear of the pack. Without any further ado, I squeezed the trigger, watching my shot blow the top of the Brute's head into the sky.

The other Brutes howled and roared at the sudden loss of their brother. They bunched up and faced outward, trying to discern where my shot had come from.

The Spartan opened fire as well. I was felling my targets one by one, so I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention to his progress at first. But I could hear the rapid _crack_ of his sniper rifle like background din, broken by the sound of the Spartan reloading every few seconds. Spiker rounds began to sear into the window frame which I was huddled behind.

I ducked and moved to another window before continuing my killing streak. One Brute down. Two Brutes down. Three Brutes down. Four Brutes down. Five Brutes down.

I adjusted my aim and centered my crosshairs on the sixth and final Brute of the rear group when suddenly its head exploded in a purple-red haze.

The Spartan lowered his rifle and started to reload once more.

I could scarcely believe it. The chieftain and all its bodyguards were lying motionless on the street, as well as all the Brutes that had been in the forward group. In the time it had taken me to kill six apes, the kid had ganked thirteen.

_Show-off_... I muttered in my head. I stopped myself from whispering it under my breath, because the Spartan probably would have heard it.

All the same, I was secretly happy I would never have to duel him. I was an exceptional sniper, as far as Spec Ops goes, but this kid would be a completely different level of opponent, from what I've just seen. If you didn't take him down in the first shot, you'd have a fraction of a second to make your peace with God before you lost your head.

Luckily, the Brutes' answering weaponsfire hadn't nicked either of us. That would be all we needed—getting wounded in the middle of a hostile city, where the best medical care we could provide right now was a band-aid and a wish of good luck. There was biofoam back at the bunker, but we had already put a good amount of distance between ourselves and that position.

"Well, I guess you _do_ know how to use a sniper rifle," Alex grunted, surveying my handiwork. "That was some good sniping."

"You could have wasted them all by yourself," I shrugged. "I'm not sure why your team leader paired me with you."

"Not with the entire pack firing at me, I couldn't have," the Spartan replied. He then cocked his head slightly, and revised his previous statement. "Well, no, you're right; I probably could have...but it would have been much more difficult, and I would probably have gotten hit. You have no idea how easy it is for me to get wounded. I've nearly died from wounds twice in these past two weeks alone."

I noticed how talkative the Spartan was becoming. When we left the bunker, he refused to say more than two words to me at a time. Now, he was actually speaking in full sentences. Perhaps he wasn't so quiet as his teammates believed.

"It never gets old," I grunted in agreement.

"How many times have you been wounded?" he asked, curiosity simmering under his words.

"Depends on what you mean by 'wounded'," I pointed out. "If you consider every little scratch from a needler or every little burn from a plasma charge, then I've lost count."

"How about wounds that nearly killed you?"

"I've needed surgeons to put me back together fifteen times," I replied, almost reluctantly. I didn't like talking about the numerous occasions of my life when I had found myself shaking hands with Death. "And I was medevaced to a proper medical facility on only four of those occasions."

For most of the rest, my life had been saved by Athos Patrikos, but I didn't mention this, mostly because I didn't want to ramble on. Sometimes I honestly think the 9th Force Recon Battalion would have died out years ago if not for Doc Patrikos. Not that it really mattered, though…they were all gone, now. Killed on an unknown alien ringworld.

I recalled reading about _Legio Nona Hispana_—the Ninth Legion. It had been unit of the ancient Roman Army that had been stationed in what would later become Great Britain. One day, they had gone off and marched north of Hadrian's Wall into Scotland—though it was called Caledonia at the time—and they never returned.

Was it a coincidence that my old battalion had also been a _Ninth?_ The Ninth Force Recon, the lost battalion that ventured off Reach during its glassing and was never heard from again. It was strangely fitting.

Of course, unlike the Ninth Legion, there were survivors of the 9th Force Recon Battalion to tell the tale of what had happened to the unit. Miguél Esposito, Athos Patrikos, and a scant handful of others had made it off Halo with me. They would tell their stories, and the 9th would not be forgotten. At least, not for the next few years. Assuming we were still alive in the next few years, which was looking more and more unlikely as the days dragged on by.

The Spartan sniper and I left the duplex and continued to make our way further west. I could hear gunfire and plasmafire to the northwest—the fighting seemed to have resumed. My squadmates were probably taking part in that fight. I wondered where they were right now, what they were thinking…they had already believed me to be dead once this year. Would they believe it again?

If I made it back to them, Cajun would probably sock me in the jaw for making him think I was dead, anyway. He had nearly done so when we were reunited at Crete, so he would most likely follow through with it here in Kiev.

All I had to do was stay alive long enough. That shouldn't be too hard, right?

_Heh_…

The day gradually started to darken as the morning shifted to afternoon, and the afternoon shifted to evening.

"We should find a place to sack out," Alex murmured. "Dunno about you, but I don't feel like creeping in the dark."

"Amen," I stifled a yawn and stretched my arms, trying to conceal just how achy my joints had been. I know I'm not really an old man; I'm nearly forty-five years old; still south of old age. Time spent in slipspace made me biologically younger than forty-five, to boot. But with all the abuse my body's been taking since a pack of Brutes decided to take a stroll on Harvest, I might as well be in my sixties.

Fighting constantly for twenty-eight years can take a toll. I was even beginning to spot a few thin streaks of gray in my beard, already. I had noticed my first gray hair when my squad arrived on Reach; _now,_ three months later, there were at least a dozen thin streaks.

Apt, I suppose, when you really thought about the triple whammy that had been dealt to me this year. Reach to Alpha Halo to Kiev. And that wasn't even counting the Battle of Malagosto back in April, which my squad had also participated in.

I think 2552 was turning out to be the absolute _shittiest_ year in quite literally the entire history of Mankind. Our largest war before this one had been the Interplanetary War—which encompassed the Rain Forest Wars, the Mars Campaign, the Siege of the Jovian Moons, the Eastern European Offensive, and so many others. And even _that_ war was just a water balloon fight to what we were going through now.

Humanity has never found itself in such a tight spot. If Earth burned, we wouldn't be extinct—there were still many more Inner Colonies out there—but we might as well be. The other colonies wouldn't last a day without Earth.

But here I was, fending off the attackers, one sniper shot at a time. I just wish my efforts would have more of an impact.

The rest of Alex's team—Team Rapier was their proper name, the sniper told me—had been ordered by Tyrone-G083, the team leader, to follow strict radio silence until the Covie supply hub had been located.

Until then, we would just keep on scouting.

The SPARTAN-III and I ended up taking refuge on the upper floor of what had once been a Chinese food restaurant. Now, it was just a burnt-out husk, like virtually every other building in Kiev.

I wish we were able to have a fire going, but that would amount to suicide out here. There didn't seem to be any Covie patrols passing by outside, but you never knew when someone or something would happen to be watching.

After we set aside spaces for us to sleep, both of us found ourselves sitting up, silent. Lost in our own thoughts. I was the one to break the silence.

"No one gets to be as good as you are right now without years of training," I said. "Don't expect me to believe they took an ordinary teenager, gave him a shot of super-juice, and suddenly he's a better sniper than me. You must have been training with that since you were little."

"Five," Alex replied.

"Sorry?"

"Since I was five," the Spartan reiterated. "I was five when my home was burned and my family killed. An ONI man offered me the chance for revenge, and I took it."

"So you and your friends are ONI's dirty little secrets, then? I might have known," I said quietly. "Are any of your teammates orphans as well?"

"We all are," Alex replied. "Every SPARTAN-III was recruited from glassed colonies. We had no homes, no families…and we were _angry_. If someone came up to you and offered the chance for vengeance, you'd take it without hesitation."

I don't think I would. I could say this with a fair amount of accuracy, because I've already lost a home. But when I was flying away from Harvest in a cargo freighter twenty-eight years ago, I was too relieved to have escaped the glassing to really care about getting back at the Covies. We just hadn't known all that much about them, at the time…

And besides, I hadn't really lost any family in that attack. My mom left my dad after I was born, and she was never heard from again. My dad was killed by a drunk driver on a highway near the Munin Sea when I was five years old. I had no siblings or extended family.

Harvest had been the only thing I had lost when the Covies finally burned it. I no longer had any loved ones to lose.

"Why do you talk to me?" I asked next. "Not all of your teammates seem to be eager to be friendly to a Helljumper. Why you?"

"You said you owe the Spartans your life," Alex answered evenly. "The truth is—and I've only told this to Sam, my girlfr—to a very good friend of mine," he caught himself, "but I owe my life to the Helljumpers."

I arched an eyebrow, removing my helmet and setting it down next to me. The boy did likewise. "And why is that?" I asked, my own curiosity starting to simmer.

"I should have died on Salamis II," the Spartan admitted. "That was the colony I was born on. I hid in a cupboard while Elites slaughtered my family, but I was rescued by three Helljumpers. Ironic, isn't it? Saved by the very thing I'm supposed to dislike. Kind of hard to dislike Helljumpers when an ODST is the only reason I'm alive right now."

My mouth hung open slightly. It all came rushing back. I suddenly knew what the kid's accent was, now—Afrikaans. White South African. Like the inhabitants of Salamis II…the colony on which Cajun, Apache, and I had been separated from the rest of the squad. We fought our way through Rustenpoort and rescued a small, little five-year-old boy…

"I actually almost killed the one who opened the cabinet I was hiding in…" the Spartan continued.

We took him behind UNSC lines and got him off-planet. The last time I had seen him, he was being spoken to by Captain Delucci. Only now did I understand what Delucci had been doing. He hadn't been consoling the boy, telling him what a hero his father, Codename Orion, had been…he had been _recruiting_ him.

I suddenly began to feel sick.

"…and I'll never forget what the man said to me. _We're the good guys,_ he said. And he took me with him, even though I was more of an inconvenience than a help," he added bitterly. "I couldn't do _anything_ then. Couldn't protect my family, couldn't save my home, couldn't help those ODSTs…couldn't do anything."

"You weren't an inconvenience," I murmured.

The boy looked up. I wasn't able to look into his eyes because of the darkness, but it were light enough for me to see them… I was one-hundred-percent certain that they'd be harsh, electric blue.

"What did you say?"

"That man who rescued you didn't have a beard," I recalled, stroking my ruddy facial hair. I then grabbed my personal light and shined it on the left side of my face. "But he did have a rather noticeable scar, didn't he?"

There was dead silence. I guess the kid was as surprised as I was—actually, scratch that; I _know_ the kid was as surprised as I was.

"I searched for you through the archives, but I could never find you…" Alex told me. "Didn't even know your name. All I knew was Scar...your callsign."

"I was deep in ONI Black Ops at the time," I explained. "You wouldn't have found me in any of the archives. And even if you did, you certainly would never have found anything about me being on Salamis II."

"I just…_wow_…" Alex-G004 shook his head slowly, lying down flat on his back. I did the same, closing my eyes, waiting for sleep to come. "What are the odds, you know?" he mumbled.

"Very small," I stated in agreement.

I got no response. The Spartan had already fallen asleep. I allowed myself a faint grin. 2552 may be the shittiest year in human history, but it was turning out to be by far the most…shall I say _eventful_ year for me.

I learn about a daughter I never had, I meet the Elite who had spared my life…and now I meet another figment of my past. The little boy I had saved from a burning city.

But what had ONI done to him? Would he end up hollow, like his predecessors? Would he begin to slowly lose his emotions? Would the members of his team gradually cease joking and poking fun at one another and become grimfaced, silent suits of armor?

And the kid had mentioned that people like him had been conditioned for suicide missions. Maybe I had gotten him out of Rustenpoort…but had I really saved him? I think I might have just pulled him out of the frying pan, only to drop him into the fire underneath.

Luckily, I fell asleep before I could start to feel sick, again.


	87. VI Chapter 87: Rapier

Chapter Eighty-Seven: Rapier

**November 9, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

We got back up early the next morning. It had been somewhat sunny yesterday, but the clouds were back, now. It was a perfect, gray day outside. It was even misting a little bit—adding that little flair of weather that this gray day was needing.

Alex-G004 and I grabbed our weapons and, after a swift breakfast, left the ruined wreckage of the Chinese restaurant. We forged out into Holosiiv District, which was still somewhat engulfed in the morning fog.

Distant weaponsfire could soon be heard as the Covenant re-engaged our forces in Sviatoshyn District. They seemed to be going at it every single day after sunrise. The Brutes in charge probably had it all down on their schedules.

Sleep.

Wake up before sunrise.

Breakfast.

Wipe out the Humans.

"So tell me something," I mumbled after a long, weary yawn. "If there are three hundred Spartans in one of these companies, and you're part of the third company…does that really mean that there are nearly a thousand Spartans out there?"

"No," Alex shook his head.

"But I thought-"

"Our specialty is suicide missions," the SPARTAN-III reminded me. "That's what the spooks sent Alpha and Beta Companies on; suicide missions."

The streets in this part of Holosiiv were quiet. The fog seemed to swallow all sound. We could hear our own breathing and voices, as well as the distant clatter of gunfire, but nothing beyond that.

"You have family?" the Spartan asked me.

"Afraid not," I answered him. He didn't ask for details, and I didn't have many to give him. "Been an orphan since I was five, grew up on the streets with a group of homeless people."

"No genocidal aliens around then," Alex remarked. "No reason for ONI to snap you up."

"Though I suppose they _did_ snap me up, in the end," I chuckled. "I've been doing their wet-work for nearly fifteen years, now."

"At least your superiors aren't pleasantly surprised every time you return from a battle alive," the Spartan sighed. "Even if Earth remained safe…I don't think I'd ever see my seventeenth birthday. Or even my sixteenth, which is only two months away. You, on the other hand…the odds are stacked against you, too, but you already know that it is possible for someone like you to stay alive. You yourself are living proof. You've been bred to fight; I've been bred to die."

"You make it all sound so positive, when you put it like that," I muttered.

We didn't encounter any packs of Brutes, this morning. Instead, we nearly got clobbered by an armored convoy. Luckily, Alex had heard it coming, and we'd been able to hide as it rumbled past. We wouldn't have stood a chance if we'd attacked it all on our lonesome.

But, as it soon turned out, we had bigger fish to fry today.

I had set my COM to the frequency being used by the team of SPARTAN-IIIs, so I able to hear their chatter. Of course, there hadn't _been_ any chatter because they were adhering to strict radio silence until the supply hub was located. But now…

"_This is Rapier-Two,_" the COM crackled as we headed down the street, the voice of Samantha-G113, the red-haired Spartan, issuing through. "_You guys hearing me?_"

"_Loud and clear, Sam,_" the deeper, gruffer tones of Tyrone-G083 responded. "_Tell me the good news_."

"_Well, I'm trapped in a warehouse with Brutes who want to tear my limbs off one by one_. _Oh, and I have a spiker round lodged in my thigh, so I can't exactly run away,_" the red-haired Spartan replied nonchalantly.

"_What?_" Alex nearly tripped over a pile of rubbish as he reacted to that last transmission. "Sam, are you-"

"_Shut it, Alex!_" Tyrone cut the sniper off. "_Sam, what is your position?_"

"_I'm setting a beacon,_" Sam informed him. "_Try and hurry, if it's not too much of an inconvenience_."

"Let's go," Alex immediately set off at a steady jog. Of course, a steady jog for him was a slow sprint for me, but running was another one of my strengths. I was just lucky he wasn't going full speed, else I wouldn't have had a prayer of keeping up with him.

We sprinted down this street, and then the next street, and then the next. I nearly slid in the slush several times, but I never fell down. That was also good; the kid would probably be halfway to Warsaw by the time I got back up to my feet, the way he was running.

We didn't stop. Thankfully, we didn't run into any Covie patrols along the way. That would have ended badly—the Spartan had descended into some kind of tunnel vision complex; all he seemed to care about was getting to his besieged teammate. I suppose I'd feel the same way if it were Dempsey or Soph Devereux in danger.

I could see the beacon on my HUD, but I would have to access the TACMAP in order to get its exact position, and I wasn't able to do that very well while running this fast. All I could go off of was the distance indicator under the small blue arrow, which was constantly getting smaller and smaller as we headed towards its location.

The Covenant supply hub was set in a large square in northern Holosiiv. The square wasn't quite as big as the one my house had commanded, but it was still pretty sizeable. The square was protected by a large, dome-shaped energy shield. I had come up against similar defenses back on Reach, during the push through the Viery Badlands.

The shield shimmered and pulsed above the rooftops of the buildings forming the square's perimeter. Nothing short of a MAC round or a barrage of Archer missiles would be able to crack that thing.

Another pack of Brutes garrisoned the place, along with dozens of jackals and grunts. Most of the grunts were performing menial labor; packing supplies into the purple canisters, moving the canisters onto Shadows—the Covenant version of a heavy transport vehicle.

There were several large Covie structures in the square, as well—airlifted in, no doubt. They seemed to contain the weapons and rations that were going into the supply canisters. The centermost structure was the generator supplying power to the energy shield.

But what really got our attention was the scarabs. There were at least a dozen of them sitting in the square, their legs neatly folded up. They weren't active, yet, but once they were…with our lines up north in the shape that they were in, a concentrated thrust of all this heavy armor could easily gut Sviatoshyn District.

As I gazed at the generator, an idea began to form in my mind. For now, I stowed it away for later. We had to secure Alex's teammate first before we could do anything about the hub. The hub would always be there…Samantha-G113 would _not_.

The red-haired Spartan was located in a large warehouse half a block away from the square. After getting a good look at the square from afar, Alex and I broke off and took to the side alleys, making for the street which his teammate's warehouse was on.

"Tyrone, you read me?" Alex spoke over the SQUADCOM. "We're on-site and ready to breach. What's your position?"

"Right behind you."

I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see the two other Spartans materializing out of thin air as their armor's photo-reactive panels reverted to their normal, yellow-green hue.

"About time we found this place," Emma-G132 grumbled, resting an M379 LMG across her shoulders. She had several belts of ammunition draped around her neck, and they clinked together as she hefted her light machinegun. "I'm down to my last protein bar. Don't know what I'd do without those little slices of heaven…"

Alex stuck his sniper rifle onto his back and pulled out his magnum, checking the clip before priming it. "I'll take point," he said.

"Negative," Tyrone shook his head. "I have point. Em, you're my second."

Alex gave a low mutter of discontent, but wisely chose not to argue with his superior. Instead, he tightened his grip on his magnum and moved over to the wall of the warehouse. There was a set of steel double doors, secured with a bolt and several padlocks. I don't know what was being stored in this warehouse, but whoever owned it obviously didn't want anyone getting in. Miraculously, the building had managed to survive the constant bombardment of plasma. It still had a roof.

Em planted herself in front of the double doors, raising her LMG and aiming it right at the building. She bent her knees slightly, and took a deep breath. "Whenever you're ready, big man," she breathed.

Tyrone racked the pump of his shotgun and crouched next to the double doors. Alex stood behind him and touched him on the shoulder, signaling that he was ready.

We could hear spiker rifles and brute shots going off inside the warehouse, as well as the animalistic howls and roars of the ape-like Covies. They sounded _pissed_.

Tyrone stood up and shouted, "_Breaching, breaching!_" before he drew back a leg and kicked the doors down. Thick, heavy, steel double-doors, reinforced by a metal bolt and several locks…and he just crumples it like tissue paper.

Tyrone rolled into the building as he kicked down the doors, getting out of his teammates' lines of fire. Once he was clear, Em opened up on the pair of Brutes that were approaching to investigate the doors.

They didn't know what hit them. They must have heard movement on our side of the door and thought it was reinforcements, or something else along those lines. Then the door suddenly crashes down, and they're greeted by a storm of bullets.

The clatter of Em's M379 would have been deafening if I wasn't wearing a helmet like this one. Her LMG spat fire as she knocked down those Brutes' energy shields. Once their shields were down, their armor hissed, popped, and vented cyan smoke as Em's burst began to tear into their bodies proper.

After they were dead, Em ceased fire. "Entrance clear!" she shouted. She made her way inside. Alex was hot on her heels.

I kept my sniper rifle and hung back a little, letting the Spartans go ahead of me. I'd just get in their way if I tried to get ahead of them, so I just let them go. I watched the main aisle of the warehouse as the Spartans moved in. Twice, a Brute pocked its head out into the aisle and attempted to rush the Spartans, but I dropped them with quick, clean headshots.

As I edged into the warehouse, I could see why the owners didn't want anyone getting inside—the shelves and storage spaces were filled with cannabis plants. Marijuana. Politicians had never really gotten around to legalizing it, so the business still made a lot of dirty money.

I revised my observation as I got a closer look; these things _used_ to be cannabis plants. They had all long since died—when the Covies stormed into Kiev, the owners of this place doubtless had more valuable things to worry about than their grow house. Without anyone caring for them and sustaining them, and especially once the UV lights stopped working, the cannabis had wilted and died.

Many of the dead plants had been completely destroyed by the fight that had raging here for the past fifteen or so minutes. Our own gunfire was added to the din of the Brutes' spiker rifles and brute shots as the Spartans fanned out into the warehouse, hunting down and taking the Brutes from the rear.

I accompanied Alex, who was felling apes with precise shots from his magnum. I stowed my sniper rifle now that I was inside and drew my magnum out, as well. We advanced down the side of the warehouse together, moving from section to section.

The loudest noise by far was the thunder of Emma-G132's M379. She was definitely giving the Brutes the hardest time. Because it was the loudest weapon, it also drew the largest amount of apes to her. Tyrone was with her, and I could hear his shotgun blasting away along with the LMG.

Without intending to or even realizing it, the Spartan sniper and I had become an effective flanking force. We moved as fast as we could, taking out any Brutes that got in our way. We had the lightest weapons on hand, so we were lucky to encounter so few.

We reached the back of the warehouse after half a minute or so, following the sound of the Brutes' weaponsfire.

Sam-G113 was thrashing on the ground, her legs kicking uselessly at the floor. She was grasping the hands of the Brute captain that was currently throttling her, but the grip was too strong to break.

The bodies of at least eight or nine other Brutes littered the ground all around her. She had obviously been busy…at least before she ended up in her current predicament.

Alex opened fire, striking the Brute captain several times in the back. It threw back its head and howled, but did not release its grip from the red-haired Spartan's neck. Sam's struggles began to lessen as she went longer and longer without air.

Alex emptied the rest of his magnum's clip, but it only managed to knock out the brute's energy shields. The Spartan sniper dropped his weapon and flicked out his combat knife. He let out a raw-throated yell and leaped onto the Brute's back, plunging his blade into its upper back.

That made the Brute let go. It grabbed Alex by the shoulder and ripped the Spartan from his back, hurling him into one of the shelves. The entire set of shelves collapsed and fell over with a resounding crash.

It was extremely angry, by now. The Brute hunkered down low, its knees bent and its fists nearly brushing the floor. It whipped around and fixed me in its bloodthirsty glare. Its lips drew back in a feral grin, exposing teeth. It then charged.

My sniper rifle was already in my hands. I had gotten it off my back the moment it had started berserking, so I already had it aimed when it started to charge me. I leveled the rifle and fired, leaning forward slightly so that the kickback wouldn't blow me off my feet.

The round tore through the Brute's chest, bringing it to a dead halt. Remarkably, it still had the strength to continue limping towards me, growling menacingly.

I raised my rifle to deliver a killing shot, but it turned out that I didn't have to. Sam, who had regained most of her breath, came up from behind and stabbed it once in the lower back, bringing it down to its knees. She then wrapped an arm around its neck and drew a quick line across its throat with her knife, sending a small spray of violet-red onto the floor.

The Brute gurgled once, then pitched forward. It didn't move again.

Samantha-G113 wiped her blade off on the corpse and slipped it back into its sheath. She then yanked her teammate's knife from the Brute's back and cleaned it off as well. She inverted it and presented it to Alex grip-first as the sniper pulled himself out of the shelves.

Alex accepted the knife and sheathed it. The two Spartans glanced at each other for a moment, then fell into a tight embrace. "Took you long enough, Ace," Sam said as they released each other, delivering a friendly punch to the shoulder. "I'm gonna have bruises all around my neck, now."

"I'm still here, you know," I cleared my throat, a little awkwardly. It never ceased to intrigue me how easily the Spartans seemed to forget I was here when in the presence of one another.

"I have eyes, I can _see_ that," Sam retorted. She limped over to me—I could see the bloodied spiker round lodged in her thigh, just like she'd said over the COM—and extended a hand. "Thanks for the helping hand."

I gingerly shook the Spartan's hand, praying that she wouldn't accidentally crush my finger bones. She didn't, thank Christ.

"Jesus, your leg-" Alex started to examine the spike lodged in Sam's thigh, but she slapped his hand away.

"I can still limp," she declared. "Not much that can be done for me until we get back to the bunker, anyway. And we still have to get rid of that supply hub…did you see all those scarabs?"

We made sure she was able to walk before heading back to the front of the warehouse. Tyrone and Em were cleaning up, executing the couple of Brutes that were still breathing. "Good to see you in mostly one piece, girl," Em rose her LMG in greeting.

Sam raised her M7 SMG, and the two female Spartans knocked their weapons together.

"What the hell happened?" Tyrone grunted, shouldering his M90 shotgun and gesturing for us to move outside.

"They spotted me when I found the hub," Sam sighed. "Interference from the energy shield shorted out my armor's camouflage. One of the grunts spotted me, so I run and take cover in this place…then one thing led to another, and an entire patrol of Brutes ended up coming after me. Your timing was impeccable."

We took up a position in one of the smaller side alleys running into the square which the Covies had set up shop in. We didn't need binoculars to get a closer look; their visors were able to magnify on their own, and I had my sniper rifle.

"Those scarabs are bad news…" Tyrone said. "Bad news for Sviatoshyn, bad news for this entire engagement."

"It'll be a tough nut to crack," Em grunted in agreement, feeding a new belt into the M379's chamber. "But we'll crack it."

"You have a COM relay back at the bunker, correct?" I asked Tyrone. When he nodded, I gave an inward sigh of relief—my idea wouldn't work without a means of communicating with HQ. "I've had this idea... If we can take out that power generator, we can call in artillery and wipe out everything in this square."

"That would be a good idea if it were humanly possible to get HQ to divert some of their fireworks in our direction," Em replied. "They won't pay attention to every single person calling in a high-priority strike."

"They'll pay attention to _me,_" I countered. I gave them a COM frequency and told them to set their relay to it. "And I don't need them all to pay attention; just one man who I happen to know. Have your teammate back at the bunker contact HQ. Tell him to do whatever it takes to get Commander Angiers on the line. Remember that; _Commander Angiers_. He's General Eckhart's ONI liaison... "

I then gave Tyrone several key security codes that would verify that the request was really coming from _me_. Commander Angiers would recognize those codes. "Make sure your Spartan gets those codes right. Once he does that, Angiers will know that I'm really the one who's calling for artillery, and all you'll have to do is supply him with the coordinates."

"You sure your ONI man will get the job done?" Tyrone asked.

"If we can't rely on _him,_ we can't rely on anyone," I shrugged.

"Alright, old man, we'll do it your way," the Spartan team leader nodded. He then activated his COM. "Rapier-Four, you read me? Robin, please respond."

"_Oi, I hear you loud 'n clear, boss!_" Robin-G227's voice crackled through the SQUADCOM. "_You blow the place to bloody smithereens, yet?_"

"No, Robin, you're going to help us with that," Tyrone responded. He then proceeded to give Robin the instructions I had just told him. "…and make sure you give this Commander Angiers the right counter-responses, or we can kiss our artillery goodbye. You sure you have the coordinates I gave you right?"

"_I won't call artillery down on your noggin, if that's what you're worried about,_" Robin chuckled. "_I'll get the job done; don't you worry_."

"You better," Tyrone killed the channel, then turned to me. "Old man, you're staying back here. I want you on one of these rooftops giving us covering fire. Sam, you're not going anywhere on that leg; you're going to cover the Helljumper. Em, Alex; you're with me. We'll get as far as we can without begin noticed, but if Sam's shields didn't last, ours probably won't either. So be ready for a fight."

"_Hoo-ah,_" the Spartans chanted in unison.

I took my leave and ducked into the adjacent building. The red-haired Spartan was right behind me as I pulled myself up the stairs and emerged onto the third floor. The third floor was pretty much the roof because all of the higher floors no longer existed.

I crawled up to the edge and snapped out my sniper rifle's two spokes at the front of its stock that allowed me to rest it on the ground while I was prone. I focused my sights and watched the three Spartans move out into the square, their photo-reactive armor rendering them invisible to the naked eye.

"Your boyfriend is quite a sniper," I hummed as I set my sights on the Brutes nearest to the three Spartans. I knew that if the energy shield had interfered with Sam's camouflage, it would probably do the same with everyone else's. I would soon be keeping the apes from swarming them.

"Is now really a good time to have a conversation?" Sam sounded slightly irritated.

"No one's shooting at us yet," I shrugged.

"That's about to change…" she observed, looking down into the square.

Even as she spoke, I saw Emma-G132's armor flicker twice from the interference caused by the massive energy shield. As Tyrone had warned earlier, the momentary lapse in invisibility was detected.

I fired just as the plasma began to fill the air, felling a nearby Brute.

The three Spartans were running at their fastest speed, now, and it was almost too fast for the Covies to follow. They had a few near misses as they went—Em got grazed in the side as she evaded a fuel rod blast.

I fired the rest of my current magazine and reloaded, systematically picking off another trio of Brutes. One of those last four shots hadn't been a fatal one—it took the subsequent shot to make it a kill, thus reducing my potential four kills down to _three_ kills.

But I didn't miss another shot. My tunnel vision intensified until I could only see the points on the Brutes where I wanted my bullets to end up. One by one, bullet by bullet, I made sure the rounds got there.

I don't know how long it took for the three Spartans to reach the generator, but I was eventually snapped out of my concentration by the loud explosion of the central Covenant building brewing up in a tower of white and blue flame.

The shimmering, pulsing dome of energy flickered once, and then it vanished.

As the trio of SPARTAN-IIIs raced back towards us, I could hear Tyrone shouting over the COM, "_Now, Robin! NOW!_"

"_You got it, boss!_"

I could hear the scream of incoming artillery. It started off low and rumbling, then quickly intensified into a deafening screech before the world shook and the fires of modern technology rained their fury upon those who dared to defy them.

Craters were blasted right through the pavement and asphalt, tearing the square apart piece by piece. The parked scarabs were ripped to shreds by the intense barrage, thereby removing the immediate threat to the Sviatoshyn lines to the north.

The Covie supply depots were likewise incinerated, which in turn fulfilled the Spartans' original objective; destroying the Covies' resupply lines in this sector of Holosiiv.

"Time to leave," I muttered, packing up my sniper rifle and getting to my feet. The surviving Covies in the area would be quick to notify their comrades of the presence of humans, and the sky would fall on us if we lingered.

We regrouped with the rest of the Spartan team down on the street, jogging east, back the way we came.

"Well, old man, you _do_ know your stuff," Em said to me as we headed down another street to avoid a patrol of Covenant armor. "You're alright, I guess. At least, for a Helljumper…"

I recognized an olive branch when I saw one, and I took it without comment or remark. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, after all…

I shook my head immediately after that thought sprang into existence, dispelling it.

No need to jinx myself.


	88. VI Chapter 88: Roll With the Punches

Chapter Eighty-Eight: Roll With the Punches

**November 10, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

We got back to the bunker around 2300 hours last night. It was much faster going back than it was going deeper into Covie territory—probably because we actually knew where we were going, whereas before we had just been scouting.

The first thing we had done was to get that spiker round out of Samantha-G113's leg. Once that was done, though…we had a chance to relax. I knew it would be good to get some sleep, but I just didn't feel tired. The energy rush of yesterday had yet to wear off.

"Anyone up for a celebratory game of Texas Hold'em?" Robin-G227 twirled a deck of playing cards around his finger.

"Alright, Rob, _one_ game," Tyrone yawned. "Then I'm grabbin' some shuteye."

It turned out that the Spartans played Texas Hold'em very similar to how I had used to play it with my old comrades from the 9th Force Recon; they substituted chips with different kinds of ammunition.

The game went rather quickly. We were all still a little revved by the events of the past two days, but sitting down for a game of Texas Hold'em quickly reminded us just how tired we all were. By the time Tyrone took the pot of bullets with a baby straight, several of the other Spartans were nearly falling asleep in their chairs.

"Aight, people, get some sleep..." Tyrone yawned. "Tomorrow, we'll see if we can find ourselves some more Covie armor—they're bound to have sent in a force to the hub we blew the shit out of. I want everyone well rested. Alex? Sam? You hear me? _Well rested_."

"No idea what you're talking about, big man," Sam shrugged innocently. A little _too_ innocently.

Tyrone muttered something under his breath and trudged into one of the sleeping quarters, peeling off his armor as he went. Em had already sacked out on the couch, displacing Alex, who had to take a pillow and sleep on the floor. Robin couldn't sleep, so he was off in another part of the bunker, tinkering with the communications equipment.

One by one, they all left until it was just Sam and me at the table. I stared into space for the longest time, no longer having the energy to even get up and find a comfortable place to lie down.

"You're alright, you know."

I blinked as the sudden sound of Sam's voice dragged me out of my half-awake daze. I blinked again and swallowed, rubbing my eyes. "Come again?" I asked. I hadn't actually heard what she'd said; just the sound of her voice.

"I said you're alright," Sam repeated herself. "For a Helljumper."

"I've been hearing a lot of that, lately," I remarked.

"How'd you get to be a Helljumper, anyway? You don't have an ODST's attitude."

"It's a long story, really," I shrugged. "It would bore you."

"We've got nothing but time, old man," Sam chuckled, reclining in her chair. "Unless the Covies decide to pay us a surprise house call."

"Wouldn't put it past them..." I muttered. "Well, alrighty then...where to begin? I've never had that spark that Helljumpers are supposed to have. When someone joins the ODSTs, it's usually when they're in their prime, when the testosterone is raging at full speed. I used to be like that, back in the beginning of my time with the marines...but over a decade of fighting in the trenches with the regulars beat it out of me. Only reason I was finally able to join the Helljumpers was because I helped save one of their squads during the Battle of Verus III. The squad's handler recruited me, and I ended up joining that very squad as its sniper. I've survived as a Helljumper from skill alone...I just don't have that attitude, anymore."

"I can kind of level with that," the SPARTAN-III shrugged, brushing a lock of red hair from her eye. "Though it's the polar opposite for us. Helljumpers are supposed to be hot-tempered asshats, but I'm supposed to be an emotionless machine. Don't deny it; I know how surprised you were when you woke up and found five Spartans acting like normal teenagers. My team was always one of the instructors' least favorites because of this...we loved practical jokes, card games; we'd goof off during our training ops... We kept our humanity. They tried to break us up," the red-haired SPARTAN-III chuckled. "They tried so many times to have us broken up...but our commanding officer didn't allow that to happen. He kept us together...and I'd love to know why, but I'll never get the chance to ask him."

"Are Alpha and Beta Companies...are they all dead?" I asked hesitantly, recalling some of the earlier conversation I'd had with Alex back out in the city. "Your friend mentioned something about suicide missions..."

"Yeah, most of them are dead," Sam nodded solemnly, her voice growing quiet. "Alpha Company actually lasted almost an entire year. You'll never hear about the things they did...but the fact that we weren't wiped out by 2540 shows how successful they were. Mamore, Sector-L009, New Constantinople, the Bonanza Asteroid Fields...they were all over the place. Then ONI managed to slap a tracking device onto a Covenant frigate during the Battle of New Harmony. Alpha Company followed it into Slipspace...and they never returned."

"Wait, _New Harmony,_ you said?" I arched an eyebrow, my interest piqued even more.

"Yeah, why?"

"I'd almost completely forgotten about that..." I murmured. "I was part of the ground assault to capture that vessel, at the end of the battle...and then, right when we were about to hit that son of a bitch, our Command suddenly ordered us to fall back. We let the frigate go. I'd always wondered why..."

"A distraction," Sam answered for me. "You kept the Covies on the frigate occupied while ONI sent a recon team to plant a telemetry probe on their ship. It worked, and they discovered the location of a Covenant shipyard. Alpha Company was sent to destroy that shipyard. They succeeded...but every single one of them died as a consequence. At least Beta Company fared slightly better—after their first mission, there were still two survivors out of three hundred. They actually helped train us."

"That's horrible..."

All Sam gave in response was another light shrug. "It's what we do," she said.

"That's even more horrible…"

"It's _necessary,_ is what it is," Sam gave a mirthless grin. It was the kind of lazy smile given by someone who has already accepted their lot in life. If that lot happened to be dying for your race before you turned seventeen…well, so be it. "Someone has to do it, and adults can't become Spartans. And it's not like ONI tore us away from our homes and families, or anything…they _rescued_ us."

"Yeah, your friend also mentioned something about all of you being orphans."

"Well, that's one way of putting it," Sam laughed again. Her laughter—even this cynical, sardonic laughter—was high and light, almost like chimes. It reminded me of Sophie Devereux's laughter, and that made me smile.

"All of us are from burned colonies," Sam continued. "That's the whole basis of the SPARTAN-III program—finding young orphans who've lost their homes and families, and offering them—_us_—the chance for vengeance. The ones who aren't emotionally destroyed are the ones who will say _yes_ when the ONI man pops the question."

"Clever using orphans, too," I observed. "They can just say you died during the attack on wherever you came from…saves them the trouble of having to explain why three hundred kids just vanished into thin air."

"Never thought about it that way," Sam mused.

"You don't remember your family, do you?"

"None of us really do," the red-haired Spartan shrugged again, talking over a yawn. "Not the specifics, at least. I know Tyrone and Em are both from Silvanus, which was glassed in October of 2541—only three thousand survivors out of four hundred thousand. Only reason they survived was because they lived in the capital city…none of their families made it out, but they were both found by Silvanus Colonial Milita members and spirited to safety. Alex was from Salamis II, and he was left behind enemy lines during the battle. Only reason _he_ survived is because a team of Helljumpers came looking for his dad, but found him instead."

"Imagine that…" I murmured.

"And our mutual friend Robin…his parents escaped Verus III and moved to Terra Rossa."

I winced as she mentioned that colony. Terra Rossa had been one of the worst losses of civilian life in the 2540s. A single outnumbered, outgunned, overwhelmed UNSC Army division hadn't been able to evacuate very much of the populace as the Covie ground forces closed in. The Navy had been able to send three frigates for evacuation efforts, but that was it.

"He told us his parents actually threw him onto one of the last transports after the Army abandoned the colony," Sam recounted. "All of them lost their families…and even though they can't remember details about their old lives, they definitely haven't forgotten."

"And you?" I asked.

"What?"

"What's your story?"

"Nothing, really," Sam waved her hand dismissively. "It'd bore you."

I stared at her, raising a single eyebrow at her choice of words. "Well, we've got nothing but time, as you so eloquently put it," I grinned. When she still remained silent, I went on. "I lived in Gladsheim—the second-largest city on Harvest—until I joined the militia when I was sixteen. Harvest was glassed early the following year. I've spent the rest of my life in battle armor, fighting the Covies wherever they popped up. Then, just in the past few months, I've lost two squadmates, almost all of my old friends from my days in the trenches, and the woman I loved. It's a strange thing…losing your past and your future at the same time. Die old, die young; it doesn't matter. The longer you survive, the more you lose."

"Wow… I think you win the cynicism award for the year," Sam hummed, pausing again to yawn a second time. "That's pretty rough."

"So I've told you my story; now it's your turn."

"Like I said, there's nothing much to it," Sam shrugged. "I grew up in an orphanage in New Barbados; it was a small region in the south of Emerald Cove."

"No parents?"

"No, they lived in the orphanage _with_ me," Sam muttered, rolling her eyes toward the heavens. "I never met my parents. I was told that they were marines—my mom definitely was, and my dad probably was…but there's no way to be sure. My mom had me in the hospital, signed the custody papers, and gave me up to an orphanage. The name she left was fake. She probably didn't want her superiors to know she had fucked one of her comrades…that wouldn't exactly have done wonders for her, now, would it have?"

"When were you born?" I asked, my brow furrowing in a slight frown.

"August, 2537," Sam replied. "Why?"

"Nothing…it's just that I…" there were thoughts stirring at the back of my mind, but they were absurd, and I almost immediately dismissed them. "Nothing. Did you ever find out who our parents were?"

Sam shook her head. "It's not like I've exactly had tons of spare time to go searching. And besides… I was born sixteen years ago. They're probably dead, by now."

I didn't have anything to say to that, except that she was right. My surviving this long through the war is not a kind of luck—or misfortune—that is exactly commonplace…many people who were fighting the Covenant sixteen years ago were either dead or forcibly retired due to loss of limbs.

"The people running the orphanage got all of us onto a transport when the Covies showed up," Sam finished. "No horrible circumstances, no last-minute escapes, no dramatic stories...just me on a transport, watching my home burn."

"Why'd they recruit you, then?"

"I was the only one who didn't cry."

"Do you want to die?" I asked her this next question the moment it sprang to mind. "I've always wanted to ask a Spartan that…the ones I've met; they just don't seem to mind sacrificing themselves on the turn of a dime, and I've never been able to understand that. I'm sure they don't want to die…but I can't put myself in their boots."

"It's never a question of _wanting_ to die; it's a question of being _ready_ to die."

"Are you ready to die, then?"

"_No,_" the red-haired Spartan shook her head slowly, her gaze momentarily flitting over to the blue-eyed Spartan sniper, who was fast asleep on the floor. "Most of the others are, but… No, Gunnery Sergeant Alley Garris, I _don't_ want to die."

Maybe it was possible for Spartans to be Human after all. But I didn't have any time to mull those thoughts over, because the Covies chose _now_ to attack the bunker.

I could faintly hear the rumbling of wraiths firing their plasma mortars…closely followed by a much louder, much _closer_ explosion. I already knew it was the work of wraiths; I would recognize the sound of their plasma mortars going off anywhere. I didn't need to peek out into the hallway to know that the plasma barrage had taken out the elevator leading _into_ this place.

The Covies wouldn't be far behind.

Sam bolted upright—the explosion had been noticeable for me, but it had probably been almost deafening for her. Emma-G132 sprang out of the couch as the explosion rang out, roused by the sudden noise.

"_What the bloody hell was that?_" we could hear Robin shouting from the bunker's mostly defunct control room.

Tyrone emerged from his room, already clad in his armor and sealing his helmet. "Covenant must have followed us from their supply hub!" he declared. "I was afraid this would happen! We gotta move!"

"Move _where,_ exactly?" I asked. "That elevator was our way out."

"No, there's an auxiliary entrance at the bunker's other end," Em told me as she prodded Alex awake with her foot. The blue-eyed Spartan had fallen asleep in his armor, so he was ready to go the moment he woke up.

"Well that's delightfully convenient," I said to myself, not complaining in the least.

We had less than a minute to gather our weapons and gear before the Covies made their way into the corridor outside.

As Sam got up and hurried off to grab her helmet, I hesitated for a moment, and then picked up something she left behind. I don't really know why I did this...just a feeling, really. And I've learned to trust my instincts. I slipped the object into my helmet, right behind the picture of Devereux and me back when we had fought on Verus III. There it would remain until the Battle for Kiev was over.

"Let's move, let's move!" Tyrone thundered, leading the way into the corridor. Em hosed the oncoming Brutes with her M379 LMG, keeping them suppressed so that they couldn't just charge us. We steadily fell back down the corridor and into the control room, sealing the door behind us. That would buy us about thirty seconds, or so…

"Robin, open the auxiliary entrance," Tyrone ordered. "We need to leave, and we need to do it _now_."

"Already done, boss," Robin swiped two fingers across his faceplate—Alex had told me that was what Spartans did to show that they were smiling. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Robin-G227 led us through another doorway and the corridor beyond. The auxiliary entrance was similar to the main entrance, only it was smaller and there was no elevator. Instead, there was a cramped shaft leading up to the surface with steel rungs set into one of the sides.

One by one, we scaled the ladder. The Covies broke through into the control room just as the last of us made it to the top of the ladder. A long corridor extended from this ladder to another entrance further on down. It was wide open, waiting for us to arrive. Normally that entrance would be sealed tight, but Robin had been able to open it from the control room. This was fortunate, as getting through that entrance would require handprints, retinal scans, and voice-recognition patterns; all of which we had no time to hack through.

We emerged in a bathroom stall. The entire back of the stall was the entrance—once we were through, it swung back into its place, becoming a normal bathroom stall once again. These bathrooms had been located in the basement of a kind of warehouse, but the entire structure above us had been blasted away by the intense plasma bombardment, leaving this basement exposed to the elements.

"Anyone have any idea where we are?" Alex piped up as we headed out onto the streets and started heading north.

"We're just west of Pechersk—the centermost district in Kiev," Tyrone replied. "We'll have to keep heading northwest from here if we want to get to Sviatoshyn."

"Podil District is still mostly in friendly hands, too," Em reminded her team leader. "We should probably head for that. It's closer than Sviatoshyn."

"Oh, that reminds me," Robin cleared his throat as we stepped across the street and entered a back alley. "I heard some surprisingly good news over the COM chatter about an hour ago. Remember that relief force under General Ndebele that was being put together up in Belarus? Well, they finally crossed into Ukraine, and they're flanking the Covie forces north of Kiev. We might actually get reinforcements within a day or two if they're successful."

That was _incredibly_ good news. I honestly didn't know how to react... I think I'd already accepted long ago that I'd probably die in this city. The odds were still pointing in that direction...but if reinforcements—a once laughable notion—were now possible...maybe there was an inkling of a chance that I'd live to be forty-five.

_Don't get so far ahead of yourself, there, Alley_...

Okay, cynical internal monologue, have it your way.

We got out just in time, too. By the time we had made it at least a block away from the bunker's auxiliary entrance, Covenant armor had descended all over the entire area. Luckily, we had been able to evade the majority of their forces. By the time we were discovered, we had put most of their armor behind us.

It was pretty difficult to fight those wraiths. None of us had any anti-tank weapons on us. Our heaviest weapon was Em's LMG, and that could only do so much. On two occasions, Tyrone and Sam were able to shove grenades into a pursuing wraith tank, blowing their main cannons sky high.

At the breakneck pace which we were pushing ourselves to, we reached Shevchenko District by noon. The Covies had had a presence in Holosiiv and Pechersk, but Shevchenko was a fucking beehive of activity. After all, Shevchenko shared its small western border with Sviatoshyn, and its much larger northern border with Podil District.

The western half of Podil still belonged to Ironguts Eckhart, but the eastern half belonged to the apes. The same was true for Obolon District, to the immediate north of Podil. We held the northwestern corner of the city—a small little bite out of the apple. But if that relief force from Belarus could punch through and get supplies and reinforcements running in…we might be able to take several more bites.

What we really needed was to get a foothold on the eastern bank of the Dnieper River. The 'Left Bank' was what the locals called it—the eastern side was the Left Bank, and the western side was the Right Bank. I never picked up on that until Nic mentioned it during one of my final days in my house.

The Dnieper River would be one of the hardest lines of defense to break…but once we got a foothold on the other side of the river, things would be a lot easier.

But that was talk for the future. Right now, getting through the front lines at western Podil and Sviatoshyn would be hard enough.

There were Covies on every street, now. We didn't even use the back alleys—we moved from one ruined building to the next, taking our time, making sure we weren't detected by the Covenant assault forces outside. The Spartans all used their armor's camouflage capabilities, rendering them invisible. I was out of luck in that department, but there was nothing we could do about it.

It was sheer statistics; we were less likely to be noticed if one of us was visible to the naked eye than we would be if all _six_ of us were visible. It didn't really comfort me, though…statistics or not; all it would take was one Covie to glance in our direction at the right time to bring everything crashing down.

We stopped and holed up on the second floor of a cheese shop to take a quick breather—we had been pounding the asphalt nonstop since the attack on the bunker.

"It's mayhem out there," Robin murmured, peeking out one of the windows, watching the wraith tanks and Covenant infantry files trudging by on the street below. The deafening thunder of the battle raging in northwestern Kiev was much louder. Judging from the sound alone, I'd say we were less than two kilometers away from the front lines.

This was the closest I'd ever been to UNSC lines since the initial Covenant assault on Kiev, way back when I'd been manning the line at Mykoly-Bazhana Avenue, down in southern Darnytsia. The time I've spent with these Spartans has shaped up to be one of the most intriguing two or three days of my life…but I was ready to rejoin my friends.

I joined Robin-G227 at the window, gazing out over the Covenant forces rolling towards UNSC-held Podil. My heart skipped a beat as I saw a trio of scarabs lumbering through the streets, their top-mounted plasma cannons visible among the remaining rooftops. Obviously, we hadn't torched all the scarabs in western Kiev yesterday.

"We have any real plan when we get to the front lines on how we're gonna get _through_ them?" Sam asked. "I mean, other than _last one into Podil is a rotten egg?_"

"That'd be him," Robin motioned to me. "He'd be the rotten egg."

"Thanks," my smile didn't reach my eyes.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Tyrone replied. "One thing at a time."

"_Great,_" Sam muttered under her breath.

"Couldn't we jack a wraith, or a spectre, or something?" Alex suggested. "Blast our way through the Covie lines?"

Maybe he still had vivid memories of blasting through a Covenant-infested city in an M1-Delta Dragon tank. It would, after all, be among his earliest memories.

"The moment our guys see a wraith speeding towards their lines, they'll shoot first and ask questions later," Em answered him. "They've been stuck fighting on those lines for weeks. They're tired, they're hungry, they're jittery. If we approach them in a Covie vehicle, they'll kill us. It's what I would do…"

"Then we won't use a wraith…" I murmured. I turned away from the window and faced the SPARTAN-IIIs, who were glancing in my direction. "Any of you guys good at climbing?"

"Yeah, why?" Tyrone asked.

I turned my attention back to those three scarabs. "Because our ticket through the lines is pretty high up off the ground."


	89. VI Chapter 89: A Touch of Piracy

Chapter Eighty-Nine: A Touch of Piracy

**November 10, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

Advantage of fighting alongside a team of Spartans: things that may have once seemed impossible, now seemed only extremely difficult.

I was loath to admit it, but I would never have been able to capture a scarab with my squad. Even if we managed to scale the moving legs somehow, we'd have gotten mopped up by the Covie infantry manning the damn thing up top. There was a Brute chieftain up there, for Chrissake.

But with five Spartans by your side…anything was possible.

We sprinted through several ruined buildings and across an equal number of streets, heading towards those three lumbering scarabs. And by _sprinting,_ I mean the Spartans were gliding along like they normally do, and I was panting my lungs out trying to keep up.

"Sam, I need eyes on the scarab on the left," Tyrone ordered the red-haired Spartan. "Go."

"You got it, big man," Sam replied, heading off ahead. Even though we were already running, Sam sprinting at her full speed was much faster than the rate at which we were going. I'm sure the other Spartans could have gone a lot faster if they weren't weighed down by little old me, but Sam was running fast even by their standards.

She had vanished within ten seconds, and she contacted us again in thirty. "_I'm in front of the scarab on the left,_" she reported. "_Nothing on the ground but jackals and grunts_."

"Not much of an escort force," Robin remarked.

"Scarabs never have escort forces when they're behind the front lines," Em pointed out, "because no one is ever fucking stupid enough to attack one the way we're about to."

"Good point," Robin gave an agreeing hum.

Sam held position until we reached her. Sure enough, we were right in our target scarab's path. The three scarabs were too large to travel side by side, so they were each advancing down three different roads. We chose the one on the left because it we didn't want to be flanked on both sides by other scarabs. The one on the right would have done just as well, but we had chosen the one on the left, so that was that.

We were patient, waiting for the hulking monstrosity to pass us. The moment it did, all of the Spartans except for Robin drew their magnums and opened fire, dropping the jackals one by one. Robin-G227 was armed with an MA5K carbine, so he simply opened fire with that weapon, rather than use his sidearm.

We focused on the jackals. We took out a fair number of them before they got their shields up, and we were able to drop the rest in short order. Once the jackals all went down, we got to work on the grunts. But by then, many of the grunts were entering panic mode. Once we started tearing into them, the majority started to flee.

The scarab didn't even notice, even though I could clearly see the Brutes manning it up above. They weren't even looking down. I guess I couldn't really blame them; they had absolutely no reason to look down. Who, as Em had put it earlier, would be stupid enough to actually try and attack them?

Well, _we_ were, silly. _We_ were.

"Rapier, move up," Tyrone ordered, keeping his voice down. The Brutes manning the scarab didn't seem to have heard our gunfire over the noise of the behemoth, and it would be much easier to scale the legs without them shooting down at us, so Tyrone wanted to keep those Brutes in the dark for as long as possible.

Sam went first. She was a natural—as one of the scarab's legs boomed down right beside her, she deftly leaped onto the metallic 'limb', swinging herself up onto the next panel of armor like it was no effort of all. Hell, it probably _wasn't_ any effort for her.

"Hop on, old man," Tyrone put his shotgun on his back and turned his back to me, raising his arms.

My eyebrows shot up towards my hairline. I hadn't quite been expecting to get up the legs this way. I know; how _else_ was I planning on boarding the scarab? I didn't really think it through, okay?

"You're joking."

"You feel like _climbin',_ that, Gunnery Sergeant? On your own?" Tyrone gestured at the rear leg that was still moving towards us. To be honest, I probably wouldn't have been able to climb it if it was stationary, unless someone tossed me a rope.

Unfortunately, we were fresh out of rope. I took one look at the metallic 'limb' and wordlessly hopped onto Tyrone's back. The teen Spartan was shorter than me, so it felt kind of awkward…but I decided to keep quiet. Better to get it over with without complaint.

Robin and Alex had both followed Sam up one of the scarab's front legs. Em started pulling herself up the rear leg as it hit the ground not far from where she was standing. Tyrone waited for the scarab to pick up that leg and put it back down again before following his subordinate.

I held on as tightly as I could while the dark-skinned Spartan heaved himself up the leg, one pull at a time. My legs dangled free about halfway up, and I found myself hanging on only by my arms. It was kind of uncomfortable because Tyrone had his shotgun on his back, and its barrel was nearly jammed under my chin.

I don't like having shotgun barrels jammed under my chin.

No one likes having shotgun barrels jammed under their chins.

"Doin' alright back there, old man?" Tyrone asked me.

"Yep," I lied.

Gunfire broke out somewhere up above. Sam, Robin, and Alex were getting busy.

Em vaulted up over the top joint of the hind leg and jumped onto the rear platform of the scarab.

The scarab's surface comprised of two main levels. There was the main platform, which spanned nearly the entire assault vehicle. There was a very short ramp leading up to the very back of the scarab, which was elevated a tad bit higher than the rest of the platform.

The elevated section of the platform in the very back was halfway between the main platform and the upper platform. The upper platform was little more than a wide walkway that ran from the top-mounted plasma turret to the rear of the scarab, connected to the elevated section of the main platform in the back with another small, short ramp.

The center of the main platform was shielded partly by that upper platform, but the sides and the remainder of the area above the main platform was pretty exposed. The Covies made up for this by placing plasma cannons along the sides.

Below the main platform was the control deck, where a handful of Elites would normally pilot the whole thing…but it would be safe to assume that there were Brutes at the helm, here. The control deck was accessible via a—you guessed it—via a ramp that descended into the bowels of the scarab's chassis. The ramp itself was located in the back of the scarab, right below the elevated rear section of the platform, like two staircases stacked on top of each other.

Tyrone pulled himself—and by extension, _me_—up onto the top joint of the hind leg right behind Em, letting me off his back once we were on top. I gave him a quick pat on the shoulder once I was back on my feet, signaling that he was free to move as he saw fit.

Samantha-G113 had already engaged a Brute captain in hand-to-hand by the time we made it to the main deck, about a hundred feet in the air. Alex and Robin were dealing with the lesser apes behind her.

All of the apes and buzzards manning the main deck were heading towards the other three Spartans, eager to eliminate this new threat. As such, most of their backs were turned to Em and Tyrone when they made it onto the platform.

Their backs were turned to me, too, but it was the fact that they were turned to Em and Tyrone that would, ultimately, lead to their demise. Even as Emma-G132 opened fire with her LMG, using one of the belts of ammunition she kept draped around her neck, Tyrone marched up to the nearest Brute and jammed his shotgun into its back, blowing a sizeable hole out through the other side.

It was a relief to see that thing jammed up in something that wasn't my chin. No, that's _not_ what she said.

I drew my magnum and quickly popped the two jackals who were perched on the upper platform, near the top-mounted plasma turret. I stayed towards the back of the scarab, letting the Spartans do what they did best. I'd have gotten in their way if I'd tried to charge the apes, so I climbed up to the upper platform and took potshots with my magnum. I didn't make any spectacular kills, but I definitely softened several of the Brutes up for the others.

That was a con of fighting alongside Spartans—no matter how battle-hardened of a soldier you are, they'll always make you feel inexperienced, useless, and in the way. They don't consciously do this; it's simply the effect of watching them accomplish in seconds what it would take minutes for a team of Helljumpers to achieve.

Within two minutes or so, Team Rapier had wasted all the apes on the main deck. That just left the control deck down below, which we would have to capture in order to be able to drive this thing.

Alex and I remained up on the main deck while the others went down below. Snipers weren't quite as useful in close-quarters, enclosed spaces. We stayed up here to keep an eye on the other scarabs. If they caught wind of what was happening over here…

But they didn't.

I could hear some furious fighting down below. The Spartans were being delicate with their aim, because they didn't want to damage the systems that they would later use to drive the scarab. After another minute or so, the gunfire finally fell silent.

I headed down the ramp in the back and into the bowels of the scarab's chassis. There were soft, silvery lights set in the ceiling and the floor. The deck itself was made of a purplish alloy, in keeping with Covenant tradition of making almost _everything_ purple.

At the bottom of the ramp was the back wall of the control deck. You could turn either left or right to get around the access ramp and into the control room proper.

Tyrone and Em were dragging the bodies of the slain Brutes towards the access ramp. "We're not steering this thing with ape corpses stinking up the place," the team leader declared. "Alex, give us a hand, will you?"

Robin was at the very front of the control room, examining the controls. There was a viewscreen mounted on the very front wall which could show what was around the scarab, as well as where it was going.

The very front of the control deck—I was going to call that the cockpit—was separated from the rest of the deck by a small wall that went from the floor to the ceiling, though it only occupied the middle of the deck. It was possible to access the cockpit by simply going around the sides.

The rest of the control deck had a few panels on the walls, but it was probably where Covenant Engineers had hovered, keeping the scarabs' systems in peak condition. With the Brutes seemingly running the show here, now, the scarab didn't seem to have any kind of damage control or repair crew. They had just armed it to the teeth.

By the time the other Spartans finished dragging the Brute corpses out of the control deck, Robin had worked out the controls to a reasonable degree. "This up here, this is where we steer the bloody thing," Robin rapped the control panel below the viewscreen with his knuckles. He then pointed at the panels on the small bulkhead that formed the back of the cockpit. "And these here are the weapon controls for the top turret."

Sure enough, there were three viewscreens on the back wall of the cockpit. The small one on the left had an identical feed to the driver's. The viewscreen on the right was a bit larger; it was the targeting screen for the plasma turret mounted at the very top of the scarab. As such, it was possible to move the feed around three-sixty degrees, as well as nearly straight up into the sky, but it couldn't move down very far.

The driver had control of the nose-mounted cannon, as he would have to be concentrating on what was in front of the scarab anyway. And it wasn't as if scarabs moved at the speed of light, either; it was pretty easy to drive this thing and manage the nose cannon at the same time. It was also convenient because it lowered the minimum crew requirement for the cockpit from three to two.

"Alright, Robin, you have the wheel," Tyrone clapped the Spartan tech specialist on the shoulder. "Em, I want you on the gun. Everyone else, get your asses up to the main deck. I don't think the Covies'll be able to do very much in the way of boarding us, but I want us to man that deck, just in case."

Tyrone took Sam and Alex, and headed up the ramp to the main deck. I turned to follow, but Robin-G227 grabbed my elbow and pressed two small cylinders into my hand.

"Green flames, mate," he nodded to the signal flares. "Hopefully you won't have to use 'em, but if our boys decide to start usin' us for target practice… Make sure they see these."

I accompanied the other Spartans back up to the main deck, leaving Em and Robin to their own devices. Robin had kept the scarab moving at its normal pace even after its original operators had been killed, so there was no reason for any of the other scarabs to suspect foul play.

It was a slight challenge to keep my balance at first on the scarab's deck as the behemoth lumbered along through the streets.

"Amazing," Sam shook her head slowly, observing the file of Brutes that had poured into our street from a back alley. They hadn't tried to attack us—quite the contrary, they were advancing _with_ us. "We hijack a goddamn scarab in the middle of their assault force, and they have no idea."

"I don't think it would have been this easy if the Elites were still running the show out here," I reasoned. Elites were still prone to the many flaws of the Covenant ground forces, but they had proven themselves time and time again to be superior to the Brutes in terms of leadership. _They_ would have noticed one of their scarabs getting captured.

I could finally see the front lines. I headed up to the upper deck—the small walkway that ran from the top-mounted plasma turret to the rear platform—and I observed it through the scope of my sniper rifle.

I could see marines and Army troopers alike, all hunkered down behind mounds of ruined buildings and debris. There were jackals and grunts rushing and assaulting the lines everywhere I looked. Hunters and Brutes were pressing certain parts of the line, as well, but our boys were unbreakable. The mounds of Covenant dead piled up in the lines of fire of our strong points attested to that.

But our boys were suffering, too. Everywhere I looked, I could see corpsmen staggering under the sheer number of men and women they were carrying away from the lines. Dead marines and troopers littered the front lines, too. They were getting the wounded out, but the dead were being left where they were. They weren't as high a priority—they probably moved the dead out every night, when the Covie assault waned.

Almost all of the marines and troopers manning the lines already seemed to be sporting wounds of some kind. Bandages, rags tied around the head, bloodstained armor, spiker rounds still lodged in soldiers' bodies…our boys were a mess. If the expeditionary force from Belarus was indeed attacking the Covies north of Kiev, I fervently hoped it would be able to break through soon.

General Eckhart was holding strong, but he wouldn't be able to take this beating much longer.

"Alright, let's do our boys a favor!" Tyrone bellowed down the access ramp into the control deck so Robin could hear. "I want those scarabs roasted, now!"

"_You got it, boss!_" I heard Robin-G227 shout up from below.

I held onto the plasma turret's mount as our scarab suddenly began turning to the left. After that initial lurch, though, I regained my balance and was able to stand up straight once more.

We didn't turn all the way to the left—we just angled ourselves so that we were heading towards the other two scarabs, but were still moving up with them. There was a low hum as the nose cannon powered up. The cannon's soft green glow brightened to a searing jade, and finally to a blinding white as it opened fire.

A hellstorm of green-white plasma energy violently exploded out of the cannon, searing and crackling through the air until it slammed into the nearest of the other two scarabs. The massive beam of energy didn't quite penetrate the other scarab's chassis, but it mangled the armor something fierce.

The scarab stopped and rocked sideways from the force of the impact, but it was still—barely—intact. Em fired our top-mounted plasma turret, sending fat globs of plasma crashing into the other scarab's turret, blowing it clean off. I think this was probably one of the first times a scarab had come under fire from another scarab; they didn't stand up to well to these energy-based weapons.

Maybe the Covies had grown too used to fighting humans. They hadn't had any conflicts lately that involved scarab-on-scarab combat.

A second blast from our nose cannon completely gutted the other scarab. We must have hit something vital, because it just blew up into pieces, spouting blue and white flames. Little pieces of it started to rain back down. One of them actually struck our scarab, but it bounced right back off without causing any damage.

"_Woo,_ yeah, that pissed someone off!" Robin was shouting up from the control deck. "We're getting a metric fuck-ton of incoming Covie transmissions down here! I wish I knew how to answer with this thing…"

Sam stared at the spot where that piece of debris had struck our scarab—less than two feet in front of her.

"Close," Alex-G004 remarked.

"Too close."

Even as the third scarab was halting and turning toward us, Robin fired our nose cannon a third time. This shot struck the other scarab right in the front, obliterating its main cannon. Robin quickly shifted the beam of energy to the side, where it ended up severely mangling one of the scarab's legs.

Unable to support itself with the gimp limb, that scarab toppled forward like a formation of tenpins hit by a bowling ball. It didn't explode, though; it just crashed down onto the ground. Robin finished it off with a fourth shot from our nose cannon.

"Good shooting, Rob!" Tyrone hollered down to his teammate.

"I aim to please!"

Robin-G227 steered our scarab back towards the front lines. By now, there was plasma flying up at us from the ground. Maybe the Covies hadn't noticed that we'd hijacked one of their assault platforms before, but now that we'd just reduced two of their scarabs to sunshine and memory…well, the cat was out of the bag, now.

"Em, we have a phantom coming up on our six," Sam reported, speaking into the SQUADCOM so that her message wouldn't be misunderstood.

I glanced back behind us, listening for a Covie dropship. Sure enough, after a few seconds, I could hear the pulsing whir of a phantom's engine. One of the dropships appeared out of the low-lying clouds, gunning right for us. And just when I didn't think it could get much worse, a _second_ one emerged right behind it.

Em was already taking aim, opening fire with the top-mounted plasma turret. I was standing right next to it, and I felt a surge of heat every time it fired a bolt of plasma into the air.

Even as the first phantom opened up on us, plasma bolts of our own were already slamming into its underbelly. The phantom's cannon was quickly knocked out, and its armor was gradually melted away with each burst of plasma from our turret.

These plasma turrets really packed a punch…

The second phantom suddenly exploded right afterwards. But it wasn't from our weapons…it was from an Archer missile. I'd know that kind of explosion anywhere. The phantom was completely obliterated. One moment it was there, then there was a blinding flash of light, a deafening explosion…then when the light and fire subsided, all that remained of the phantom were several ragged slabs of debris, still glowing molten-hot from the heat of the explosion, falling to the earth.

"_Fuckin 'ell, what was that?_" Robin exclaimed, his accent thickening with his surprise.

"It was a Javelin!" I shouted, hurrying down to the main deck, pulling the two signal flares from my belt as I did so.

"A what?"

"_Javelin! A fucking Javelin!_" I snapped. I was kicking myself over and over for not even taking into account whether or not the UNSC lines would try to take care of scarabs the way I had back in Darnytsia. If I'd held back so many scarabs with just the paltry force that had occupied my house, I should have assumed that General Eckhart and his subordinates were implementing similar measures in Sviatoshyn, Podil, and Obolon.

We were lucky whoever had the Javelin had hit the phantom before hitting us, or else we would've been dead before the explosion even registered in our brains.

I sparked both of the signal flares and lit them. Burning green light erupted from the ends of the flares, sizzling and spitting similarly-hued smoke into the sky. I held them up as high as I could, waving them over my head.

Robin kept driving the scarab forward. I guess someone must have seen the green flares, because no more Archer missiles came raining out of the sky.

What _did_ come raining out of the sky were drones. And a _lot_ of them.

There were at least fifty of the little ticks in the air; that was a bit on the larger end of the spectrum for drone swarms. Not that it mattered…large or small, a swarm of drones was still a swarm of drones…and we were somewhat exposed out here.

Tyrone roared as a green carbine shot seared into his upper left arm. He grabbed one of the plasma cannons and ripped it free from its mount, opening up on the Covie insects. Emma-G132 emerged a half-second later from down below, tearing into the swarm with bursts from her LMG.

Alex stood behind me, covering my back. He used his magnum, dropping insect after insect with precise shots. I kept the signal flares up over my head. Sam used her magnum as well, and she covered my front. She wasn't quite as accurate with it as her friend, but she was by no means incompetent.

Robin fired the nose cannon several more times as we slammed into the front lines of the Covenant trenches. Wraith tanks, ghosts, specters, revenants…they were all here, and Robin-G227 blew almost every one of them to hell.

After we dropped enough of the swarm, Em retired back to the lower deck and assumed control of the plasma turret, which she used to pound anything that was on the ground and in our path. Our scarab kept on lumbering forward, stopping for absolutely nothing.

Once Alex-G004 dropped the last of the drones, the plasmafire had subsided significantly. I took the time to glance downward and saw that we had finally reached General Eckhart's lines.

Soldiers and marines looked up and stared at us as we passed them by. No one cheered for us, no one even said anything…they just stared. I couldn't really blame them; it's not as if it's every day that you find a scarab fighting on _your_ side.

Robin-G227 drove the scarab straight into the heart of Podil District, passed the front lines. Behind the lines, columns of resting marines and troopers were a little more animated about the sudden arrival of a friendly scarab. Men and women whispered and gesticulated to one another pointing at us. I kept the signal flares burning, just in case, but I no longer waved them over my head like a madman.

Finally, we arrived at what had once been a beautiful monastery—white walls and towers, all capped with roofs made of green stone—but was now a half-burned down wreck. It was on top of a tall hill that overlooked the rest of the surrounding areas; Sam told me that the locals called it _Zamkova Hora,_ or 'Castle Hill'.

Robin circled us around to the street behind the monastery and made the scarab fold its legs, slowly bringing the chassis down almost all the way to street level.

"Is…is that it?" Alex murmured, as if he couldn't really believe that he was in a place where he wasn't completely surrounded by creatures that wanted to kill him.

Well, to be fair, we _were_ still completely surrounded by creatures that wanted to kill us…but what had changed was that we were among friends as well. With more friends on the way, under the command of an old Zulu General I once fought under.

Activity went on like normal around the monastery—it was a good place to serve as a command center for General Eckhart. It was pretty much equidistant from the front lines all around it.

Em and Robin came back up from below, having powered the scarab down. One by one, the Spartans all swung themselves over the side of the main deck and slid down to the ground. I did likewise, and Tyrone followed me.

A familiar man emerged from the ruins of the church as we disembarked. "Gunnery Sergeant Garris, welcome to the Pokrovskyi Monastery—or, at least, what is _left_ of it," Commander Angiers greeted me, extending a hand. "Try not to take this the wrong way, but I'm surprised to see you here. Surprised, and glad. I was afraid your final transmission from your house in Darnytsia would be the last time I ever heard from you."

"If you really want me dead, you'll have to try harder," I chuckled, shaking my superior's hand.

"I see you've made some new friends," the spook nodded to the five SPARTAN-IIIs.

"A new generation of Spartans, manufactured for suicide missions. Something Delucci was up to his eyeballs in, apparently, but failed to mention…" I murmured.

"A lot of old secrets are being dusted off for this battle," the Commander agreed. "If we lose Earth, then those secrets become worthless, regardless. Ah, hello, Tyrone; good to see you, again," the spook shook the Spartan team leader's hand as the supersoldiers caught up with me, abruptly cutting our earlier conversation short.

"Commander Angiers," Tyrone returned the handshake. I saw Angiers wince ever so slightly as his hand was nearly crushed by the Spartan's grip, but he gave no other outward indication of the pain. The Spartan then gestured to the two of us. "You know each other, I take it?"

"It's a small galaxy," Commander Angiers shrugged. "Get your team into my-"

"_Commander Angiers!_" the unmistakable voice of General Ironguts Eckhart boomed out from somewhere inside the monastery. "_Would you care to explain why I have a fucking scarab in my backyard?_"

"In a moment, General!" Commander Angiers hollered back. He turned back to Tyrone and me. "I apologize; things have been pretty highly-strung in HQ. General Ndebele's expeditionary force from Belarus got shifted farther east than we expected…they aren't going to be relieving us. They're hitting the Covies over in Desna District…" Angiers shook his head. "Now I'm rambling… I haven't slept in three days."

"I need to see Colonel Athos Patrikos," I said. "He's put me back together more times than I can count."

Commander Angiers nodded. "He's up in Obolon District, near the Moscovskyi Bridge. We just retook that area forty-five minutes ago. I'll have a driver take you there now…your squad is up there, too, I believe. They'll be happy to see you again."

"Thank you, Commander," I snapped my superior a salute, this time, as he motioned one of the warthogs over.

"Stay alive, Scar," Angiers returned the salute. He then turned his attention to the team of SPARTAN-IIIs, who had been standing silently during our conversation. "Alright, Tyrone, bring your team inside for a debrief," he gestured for the Spartans to follow him into the HQ center.

"Aye, sir," Tyrone saluted my handler. Before following him inside, he turned to me and held out a hand. I shook it, and we clasped forearms. "Semper Fi, Sarge," he said to me as we let go.

"You may be a piece-of-shit Helljumper, old man," Emma-G132 said as she bid me farewell, "but I wouldn't want anyone else watching my back. Except for my teammates, or any other Spartan. But if_ they_ were all unavailable, then I'd probably choose you. Maybe."

"Uh…thanks?"

Alex-G004 gave me a slight nod as he passed me by, but didn't say anything. I think he, of all people, didn't need to talk to convey what he wanted to say. He walked inside with Robin-G227, leaving Sam to bring up the rear.

"See you in another life, old man," Samantha-G113 grinned, waving back to me. I waved back, watching her go inside after her teammates. Memories of our conversation the previous night were still whirling around in my mind…which was one of the reasons why I needed to see Doc Patrikos.

He was someone I could trust with favors or tasks that were…shall we say…off the record.

I was jerked out of my own thoughts by the driver of the warthog laying on the horn. "C'mon Gunny, I ain't got all day!"

I climbed into the warthog's passenger seat and gave the driver a nod. He threw the warthog into gear and we sped off, bouncing east along Bilyts'ka Street towards Obolon District, passing Kurenivs'kyi Cemetery on our right.

After over two weeks of hanging onto life by the barest thread of luck, I was among friends, once more. No longer isolated, no longer cut off from everyone else, no longer waiting to die…well, no; I'd always be waiting to die, but now it wasn't as much of a certainty as it had been before.

I propped my feet up over the glove compartment, much to the driver's chagrin, and rested my hand over the lip of the warthog's side, letting the cold wind funnel through my fingers.

A plasma bolt arced overhead and slammed into a building somewhere in the near distance.

I paid it no heed. I removed my helmet and rested it on my lap, brushing the photo of Sophie Devereux and me with my thumb. "I miss you, Soph…" I whispered as I looked into the face of my lost future.

I flipped the picture up, revealing the image underneath—Dempsey, John Carrol, Pat Billings, and a sixteen-year-old me, all of us clad in the battle dress of the Harvest Militia.

I was smiling in that picture. A real, genuine, happy smile.

I hadn't known what I was getting myself, then, so I still had something to be excited about. What a dumb little fuckwad I'd been…

I pushed back that picture and took out the thin, red object that I had tucked under there last night as the Covies had attacked the bunker. I held it for a while, careful not to lose it in the wind—the driver was moving along pretty fast.

A small pang went through my chest and throat as I pushed back the two taped photographs, seeing Devereux's face once again. It was the first real sense of any kind of emotion I'd felt since her death on Alpha Halo…and it really wasn't much. But it was _something_…

I put the object back behind the pictures, and then put my helmet back on my head. I drummed my fingers impatiently against the side of the warthog, eager to see Doc Patrikos and my squad once more. A faint grin slowly crept across my face as we crossed from Podil into Obolon.

I'm back. Time to see who missed me.


	90. VI Chapter 90: Returns a Helljumper

Chapter Ninety: Returns a Helljumper

**November 10, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

Two kilometers west of the Dnieper River were two lakes. Two small lakes, smack dab in the middle of the urban sprawl of western Obolon. The one on the left was called Kyrylivs'ke Lake, and the one on the right was Yordans'ke Lake.

To be honest, they could have been a single, unified body of water if not for the narrow bridge of land—probably manmade—that bisected them. Obolons'kyi Avenue was the road that ran across the land bridge that divided Kyrylivs'ke from Yordans'ke. The road itself had been slammed by plasma artillery—and our own artillery, as well, as this area had belonged to the Covies not too long ago—and was unusable.

But that didn't matter, because the entire land bridge had become one of the largest field hospitals in Obolon District. Yes, this was definitely the kind of place where I'd find Athos Patrikos.

The driver took me to the southern end of the field hospital sandwiched between the two lakes. "Here's your stop, sir," the kid behind the wheel announced.

"Thanks for the lift," I said, grabbing my sniper rifle and hopping out of the warthog. The jeep was screaming away before I had even taken two steps.

The field hospital was, like any other kind of hub within the UNSC-held pocket of western Kiev, a hive of activity. Corpsmen were constantly bringing in new wounded on stretchers and sending recovered patients on their way. Medics and combat surgeons were operating on the wounded in canvas tents, or even under simple tarps. The coughs and groans of the wounded were an omnipresent din that came with any and every field hospital.

Thunder clapped in the distance, and a light breeze began to pick up. That would be all we needed; more rain, after the deluge we'd gotten last month. Wonderful.

I asked around for Doc Patrikos, making my way from tent to tent until I finally found myself near what looked like a makeshift motorpool of civilian vehicles. Drivers seemed to be transporting critically wounded soldiers here with those cars.

Colonel Athos Patrikos was leaning against one of those cars, puffing on a Cuban cigar. He saw me coming, but didn't make any outward motion of greeting other than a slight incline of his head. I could tell just by looking at him that he was probably the most exhausted man on Earth, right now.

"Had to take a break," Doc Patrikos sighed, cigar smoke curling from his mouth and nose as he spoke. He took another puff, the end of the cigar glowing cherry red as he sucked in the sweet smoke. "The wounded…it's like a tide. Only there's no low tide. There's only a high tide that keeps getting higher. Doesn't matter if I'm here or there; they'll keep on coming, and they'll keep on dying. And if I don't take a break once every week or so, _I'll_ keel over, and then I'll be of no use to _anyone_."

"Hey, Doc, take it easy," I raised my hands in mock surrender, leaning against the car next to the surgeon. "I'm not the guy you need to preach to."

"No, you're not," Athos Patrikos took another puff of his cigar. "I'm convincing _myself_ that I need this break more than I'm convincing anyone else. That's a con about being a combat surgeon; you always feel guilty when you take a break from saving people's lives because…well, you're taking a break from saving people's lives."

I didn't point out the flaw in that mindset, the fact that doctors couldn't go on saving people's lives if they didn't take care of _themselves,_ too, because I know Doc Patrikos already knows that. But there are some things even logic or reasoning can't change.

"Welcome back, by the way," Doc Patrikos finally gave me my proper greeting. "Rather rude of me to greet you with my self-pity speech. It's good to see you again, and in one piece…as far as I can tell, at least. Does your squad know you're back?"

I shook my head. "I just got back maybe twenty or thirty minutes ago…you wouldn't believe me if I told you what I've been doing."

"Then I won't ask," Patrikos replied. "No point in asking if I will not believe the answer."

"I like the way you think," I chuckled.

"So what can I do for you, Alley Garris?" Patrikos asked. "I'm sure you didn't go through all the trouble of hunting me down for a few minutes of idle small talk. You need something."

"I do," I nodded. "I need something done that only a doctor can do…and you're the only one whom I've known and fought with for over twenty years, so I know I can trust you."

I pulled a small vial out of my belt. I had picked it up in one of the other tents I had visited during my search for the good Doctor. I handed it over to Patrikos.

Colonel Patrikos held the vial up to his eye and looked at what was inside. "And what exactly do you want me to do with these?"

I told him.

His brow furrowed in a trace of a frown, but he gave a single nod and tucked it away. "I don't suppose you'll tell me who they belong to, or why I'm having it done in the first place?" he asked.

"You suppose correctly," I affirmed. "The less you know, the less your head will hurt. And the less interested in you ONI will potentially be…"

"Alright, I'll see what I can do," Doc Patrikos cleared his throat, hocking up a lugie and spitting it to the ground. "Probably won't be able to do anything with it until we've secured Kiev, though. I've got too much shit on my plate, right now. I'm sure you understand."

"All too well," I murmured. "Whenever it's convenient for you, really. And if I end up dying in the next few days…well, don't worry about it."

"Consider it done," Doc Patrikos extended a hand and we shook. "Though I have a feeling you'll still be around."

"Take care of yourself, Doc," I sketched a lazy salute as I headed back towards the field hospital. The Colonel returned the salute, but said nothing in farewell. He probably didn't have to.

Now that my business with the good Doctor was out of the way, I headed back through the hospital, weaving my way through the maze of people, supplies, and equipment. I wanted to head to the other side of Yordans'ke Lake, where Commander Angiers had said Colonel Hasegawa's new forward CP was located.

I never made it past the southern end of the hospital. I was stepping past a pair of corpsmen who were having a smoke with each other when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

All I saw when I turned around was a flash of a fist flying at me at Mach One before it connected with my jaw. I was thrown back off my feet by the force of the blow, landing on my back. Luckily, I didn't hurt the back of my head because I had my helmet on.

"I warned ya!" a familiar voice began to shout at me. "I fuckin' _warned_ ya back in Crete that if you went an' pulled the vanishin' act on us one more time, I'd punch ya in the goddamn mouth!"

I removed my helmet and spat a globule of blood from my mouth, massaging the bruise that was already beginning to form. "You never said that when we were in Crete," I said reproachfully.

"Well if I didn't say it, I sure as fuck was _thinkin'_ it…" Cajun muttered. He stood there staring down at me for a few more seconds, then depolarized his faceplate, showing me the wide grin that nearly split his face in half, distorting the shape of his bushy horseshoe mustache. He held out a hand. "Welcome back, old friend."

I took the hand and let my squadmate haul me up to my feet.

Cajun led me out of the field hospital and over to a waiting mongoose bike. He hopped into the driver's seat and beckoned for me to climb onto the back. Once I was situated, he gunned the motor and sent us flying around the southern shore of Yordans'ke Lake.

Colonel Hasegawa's CP was a large collection of canvas tents and tarps covering tables of HQ bells and whistles—all of it being manned by a staff of wounded personnel, regular HQ staff, and desk clerks. It was located on an oblong intersection between Bohatyrs'kya Street, which ran parallel to the southwestern shores of the two lakes, and Moskovs'kyi Avenue, which continued east until it reached the Dnieper River and morphed into the bridge of the same name.

Cajun stopped the mongoose in front of the remains of an old clothing store that sat next to this intersection. Inside were a sizeable group of marines; all of them cleaning their weapons, relaxing on piles of tattered clothing, or sleeping. But the ones who caught my interest were the black-clad figures of my other three surviving squadmates.

"Hey, boys! Look who I found!" Cajun bellowed, dragging me into the store.

My squadmates, once they saw me in one piece, sprang to their feet and gave me a warm Helljumper welcome—claps on the back that might as well have been punches, interspersed with the usual dose of profanity.

"Well feck me…Commander Angiers really wasn't bullshitting us," Celt grinned. "Ye really _were_ at the aid station!"

"You just won't die, Scar," the Master Sergeant chuckled, shaking my hand. "When Apache came back without you, we thought you were gone for good, this time."

"Last time we make that assumption," Apache remarked.

"Next time they say you're dead, I want a fuckin' body," Cajun asserted. "From now on, that's how we'll do this. No body, no KIA. Fuckin' sick an' tired of mournin' people who're jus' gonna come back from the dead the next day."

I settled back in with my squad. Apart from Celt climbing onto a chair and introducing me as the reincarnation of Rasputin, we quieted down and fell into one of our normal conversations. Complaining, jawing, grousing; the usual.

"You guys hear about the snafu with the expeditionary force from Belarus?" I asked my squadmates. "Apparently we're not getting relieved, anymore."

"No, we're still getting relieved," the Master Sergeant assured me. "Only problem is that General Ndebele ended up attacking Desna District, on the other side of the Dnieper. You've actually arrived just in time…you really should get checked out by the medics, but I want you at my side for tomorrow."

"Why, what's Old Ironguts planning?" I asked, resting a hand on the top of my sniper rifle.

"Fuckin' Pickett's Charge, that's what," Cajun muttered.

"Something we've been planning for a while, but now we have a very good reason to go through with it," the Master Sergeant continued. "Now that General Ndebele's force is attacking Desna, the Covies' defenses along the east bank of the Dnieper River will be at their weakest. General Eckhart is pooling all of his remaining armor together, and he's going to send an entire division across the Moskovskyi Bridge."

"It's the one bridge that didn't get demolished during the retreat from eastern Kiev," Apache interjected. "Only reason Eckhart hasn't put together a joint armor-infantry force to storm it is because the losses were projected to be too high."

I frowned, connecting the dots in my head. Then it changed into a grin. "I know why we have a chance of crossing the bridge," I said. "We can do it because we now have a scarab." I quickly told my squadmates a summarized version of my return to UNSC lines.

"Wait, what's this about Spartans…?" Celt started to ask, but I cut him off.

"Not important, Celt," I interrupted. "But with that scarab in his backyard, Eckhart can commandeer it, just like we did, and…I don't know…spearhead an assault on a bridge with it?" I suggested innocently.

"Well that's just bloody convenient," Celt whistled. "Handy havin' one o' them machines on our side for a change, eh?"

"How'd you manage to acquire it in the first place?" the Master Sergeant asked. "I mean, it's not as if the Covenant makes them easy to steal."

"I mentioned Spartans, earlier," I reminded my squadmates. "There was a team of five of them…they rescued me from the building Apache last saw me in. I fought with them for three days. We hijacked a scarab that was on its way to attack Podil…and the rest is history."

Cajun made a face. "Not bad for a buncha ONI freaks, I guess."

"Call 'em ONI freaks one more time, an' I'll kick your bloody teeth in," Celt, for once in his life, was deadly serious about his threat.

Cajun saw this and quickly backed off. "Whoa, there, St. Patrick, what's yer deal? You've been actin' funny ever since ya got back from Reach."

Neither Celt nor myself had told any of our squadmates about Alpha Halo, or what we went through there. The only other member of the squad who'd known was Pyro, who had been with us…and he wasn't exactly going to be sharing the story anytime soon.

But it looked like I wasn't the only one who'd been force-fed a change of opinion concerning the Spartans.

And if that wasn't enough, I'd been forced to change my opinion again…after that Spartan saved our asses back in Aszod, I'd seen that they were like emotionless machines. Empty suits of armor. And for the older Spartans, I suppose, that still held true. But with those five teenaged supersoldiers I'd fought with…they were just that. _Teenagers_.

How could I be prejudiced against that? Unless I brainstormed new reasons to dislike them, I wouldn't be able to be.

I needed a drink. Or another fight; I just didn't want to be sitting around, stewing. There was no escaping my thoughts when I had nothing to do but think.

"Aight, Scar, then you gotta tell me…what did they look like under their helmets? I gotta know," Cajun leaned forward, his interest piqued.

"They looked like kids," I shrugged. "Normal, everyday teenagers…_acted_ like kids, too. Not in battle, obviously, but in between fights…they were fucking teenagers."

"Spartan teenagers?" Apache sounded skeptical.

"Yeah, I shit you not. Fifteen, sixteen-year-olds with guns. But that wasn't even the craziest part. Wait 'till you hear this," I settled into a more comfortable position on my pile of jeans. "Apache, Cajun…you remember Salamis II, back in the early '40s?"

"How could I forget?" Cajun grunted. "Nuthin' like blastin' through an entire city in a goddamn dragon tank."

"But you remember that kid we saved from Codename Orion's house? Well I'll give you three guesses what he grew up to be."

"That little Afrikaner kid?" Apache raised an eyebrow. "You're not saying he was one of the…he wasn't one of the…" his eyes widened a little when I gave him a single nod. "Well, what are the odds…"

"That's pretty much what he said to me," I chuckled.

It was already late in the evening, so there was no assault today. The sun went down and darkness set in not too much later. Sometime during the night, it started to rain. It started as a light patter, tapping against the remains of the clothing store's roof. The marines sacking out inside with us muttered and complained as the water began to drip through the cracks.

Gradually, though, it increased in intensity until it was a steady, fully-fledged rainstorm. It would also swell into an all-out downpour every once in a while before regressing back into a stable rain shower. I think it was freezing rain, too…but I wasn't going to find out until tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow morning came much quicker than it should have. I know, that's a ridiculous notion; mornings will always come precisely when the sun begins to rise, and the length of time between that moment and the night before will never change…but to me, it still came too damn early.

And the rain hadn't stopped. When a marine captain showed up and roused everyone in the department store before daybreak, it was still falling steadily. A slight mist had risen up off the ground.

The rain was freezing rain, as I'd guessed earlier. There were tiny patches of ice on parts of the road, but nothing major. That was liable to change, though, if the freezing rain continued, which it looked like it would.

The Master Sergeant got all of us organized within a minute. By the end of that minute, we had all our weapons, ammo, and gear together, and we were hauling ass into the CP.

Colonel Hasegawa was there already, in the middle of a briefing with his subordinate majors and captains. M1-Delta dragons and M808B scorpions were steadily massing in the intersection which the CP occupied part of.

"Oh, Jaysus, they're gonna do it…we're actually _doing_ it…" Celt breathed, watching the organized chaos of the mobilization take place.

"If any of you want to say your prayers, say 'em now," the Master Sergeant recommended.

"Well, _you're_ screwed," Cajun elbowed me.

"I've gotten this far without praying; what difference will one more lousy little bridge make?" I grunted, securing my sniper rifle to my back and checking my magnum.

"One lousy little bridge could make _all_ the difference," Cajun pointed out.

"Thanks, but I'll take my chances."

"Goddamn heathen… So help me God, I'll get you to pray one o' these days. Jus' you wait," the Louisianan chuckled.

The sun had risen a short while ago, but the daylight didn't arrive until several minutes later because of the thick rainclouds. As such, there was no sunrise—the day simply began to turn a lighter shade of gray.

Whistles began to blow—a crude, outdated, but still effective way of marshalling troops. Marines and Army troopers assembled into their platoons and squads, forming up alongside the tanks.

"This is gonna get bloody…" I murmured, squinting to see the Moskovskyi Bridge, less than two kilometers distant.

"Covies are massing on the other side of the Dnieper," the Master Sergeant said to us as we moved out of the CP. "If they reach full strength and slam us, they'll steamroll right through us all the way to Sviatoshyn. We have to hit them before they can fully mobilize."

"The relief force can't handle them?" Celt asked.

The Master Sergeant shook his head. "The Covenant is trying to keep General Ndebele's forces bottled up in northeast Desna, and they're succeeding. The relief force won't be able to help us unless we carve out our own foothold on the Left Bank."

"_Great_…" the Irishman muttered under his breath.

The assault didn't start for another two minutes, as we were waiting for the arrival of the scarab. When it _did_ arrive, though, we were all treated to an unexpected surprise; General Eckart himself was manning a heavy fifty that had been bolted to the scarab's main deck.

"Mornin' boys!" the General bellowed, his Boston-accented voice loud enough to be heard without the aid of a loud speaker or a COM. I could see his distinct silhouette waving down from the very front of the scarab's deck as it made its way through the CP intersection.

"_Morning, general, sir!_" several hundred voices, all belonging to the marines, troopers, and tank crewmen gathered in the intersection, thundered in a unison reply.

"I'd like to tell you boys this is just one final push!" the General exclaimed, still keeping his voice loud enough to be heard all around. "I'd like to tell you boys that if we cross yonder bridge, we win Kiev! I'd like to tell you boys a lot of things along those lines…but the sheer fact of it is, the Covies will still be waitin' for us, even when we _do_ succeed!"

I noticed he'd avoided saying _if_ we succeed. This definitely wasn't his first speech.

"When we carve out a foothold on the eastern bank, the Covies will fight against us harder than ever! You all will be in the fight of your lives once again! Let's not kid ourselves; the idea of retaking Kiev has been a laughable notion as of late. But if we storm the bridge, if we gain a foothold on the other side of the Dnieper, if we can link up with General Ndebele…that laughable notion won't be so laughable, anymore!" the General paused momentarily to clear his throat before continuing. "You boys and girls have more than proven yourselves these past couple weeks, and I wouldn't want to storm this bridge with anyone else by my side. The Covenant seems to want Hell, so I say let's give it to 'em!"

"_Hoo-ah!_" the deafening chorus of voices—including mine, I'll admit—screamed in reply.

The officers took their queue and started ordering their men forward. We advanced at a steady pace, at first. It was over a kilometer's march to the Moskovskyi Bridge; no sense in wearing the men down before they even made it to the river.

The Master Sergeant quietly murmured something in Hebrew and Celt twirled his rosaries around his fingers as we neared the bridge. We began to pick up the pace, jogging to keep up with the tanks, splashing through the puddles.

I was glad that my helmet had a faceplate, otherwise my face would be dripping wet. The armor was definitely one of the perks of being a Helljumper; you were almost completely insulated from anything Mother Nature threw at you. Precipitation-wise, at least.

I could hear our own artillery impacting the eastern bank of the Dnieper River. At least we'd get _some_ semblance of fire support along the way.

The men and women already manning the bridge defenses on our bank watched us as we passed them by. I couldn't shake the feeling that they were watching ghosts. We were all dead men…we'd have to fight our way across the bridge to become alive again, if that made any sense.

The Covies had set up several layers of defenses on the Moskovskyi Bridge, mostly comprising of fixed energy shields, shade turrets, and portable plasma cannons. There were ghosts and wraiths waiting behind those barriers, as well as scores of Brutes, jackals, and grunts, and a few Hunter pairs.

We all had our own varying opinions about what lay before us, but I think Apache summed it up rather well.

"I'd hate to see what their full strength would look like…"


	91. VI Chapter 91: The Push

Chapter Ninety-One: The Push

**November 11, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

Our scarab was the first weapon to open fire.

As its main cannon vented green plasma energy into the Covenant lines, our tanks began opening fire as well. It was deafening, having several ninety and one-twenty-millimeter tank cannons going off around your ears. Certainly makes them ring.

The Covies were quick to respond. The opening barrage from our tanks tore into the first line of defenses, but the wraiths started raining plasma bolts down on our heads even as that first barrage made impact.

Several tanks were hit by the blasts, and one of them—a scorpion—blew up completely. Men began to scream as they were cut down by they were shredded by the shrapnel from these explosions. The ones who were hit by the actual plasma blasts didn't make a sound.

Then the Covies began to pepper us with their mounted plasma cannons, and that incurred even more losses to our infantry.

The tanks kept up their barrage, and us ground-pounders began to open fire as well. Glowing needler shards and plasma charges crisscrossed the air with our lead. It was like two swarms of fireflies crashing into each other—one swarm shining bright blue and white, and the other orange and yellow.

Many of us were armed with tracer ammunition—every third or fourth round in the magazine would burn bright yellow-orange so that the shot would be visible to the naked eye. This ammunition was commonly used on firing ranges; if the shooter could see the trajectory of his shots, he could more easily make adjustments to his aim.

We had burned through a good part of our conventional ammunition during the long weeks spent bottled up in Kiev, so we were scraping together everything we had left…and that included tracer ammunition.

Ammunition for sniper rifles was still in abundance, thank the stars. From stories I'd heard, there seemed to be a virtually autonomous force of sharpshooters and snipers operating on their own throughout the various fronts of the battle. Every day they'd creep out into the nooks and crannies of Kiev, and they'd target high-ranking Brutes. Some would spend days freezing their asses off in ruined buildings, waiting for the right time to take a shot.

That seemed to be one of the reasons our pocket in Sviatoshyn, Podil, and Obolon managed to survive so long—the chaos caused by the snipers' efforts forced the Brutes to promote lower-ranking individuals to higher positions, and the constant shuffling of their command structure wreaked havoc with the organization of offensives against our lines.

I suppose I might have joined their ranks if I hadn't been busy fighting for my life in a certain house in another part of the city. But, Fate seemed to have had other plans for me. Plans I hope I've carried out to the best of my ability.

Like I'm trying to do right now.

I unslung my sniper rifle and put a round between the eyes of a Brute who was manning one of the shade turrets. Cajun fired a grenade from his launcher right afterwards, blowing the actual turret into oblivion.

I swung my aim over to the next turret in line and centered my crosshairs on my target, but the shade turret suddenly vanished in a haze of yellow and white flame. That was the work of an HE shell from one of our grease monkey friends.

With nothing left worth sniping at from my vantage point, I broke cover and moved up with a clump of soldiers. I could see Cajun reloading his grenade launcher over to the right, and I could see the Master Sergeant pulling a pair of frozen marines out of cover so that they'd rejoin the advance. I'd lost sight of Apache and Celt, though; most of the organization had dissolved the moment we set foot on this bridge.

It had devolved into every man for himself, basically. Or rather, every group of men for themselves. The only ones here who seemed to still be working in close tandem with one another were the tanks. They maximized their effectiveness, making sure no two tanks fired at the same target.

They were still getting pounded pretty hard, though. There wasn't much space for our armor to maneuver on a bridge like this. This was one of those situations in which a joint armor-infantry force works together best. Without the tanks, we would have been reduced to bloodstains and memories before we took three steps onto the bridge. Without infantry support, though, the tanks would have been torn apart by the well-entrenched Covie ground forces.

Our working together, however, was not ensuring that we got off with light casualties. The actual effect was much more dismal than that. Armor and infantry working together ensured heavy losses…as opposed to annihilation.

It was basically like getting sodomized with either a baseball bat, or a baseball bat spiked with nails. One may be shittier than the other, but both are still pretty shitty. The lesser of two evils. Two weevils.

The lesser of two shits. _Heh_…

_Focus, Alley_.

Fuck…even at a time like now, my thoughts still manage to catch up to me. It really didn't impact my performance, all that much; I'd learned a long, _long_ time ago to keep functioning basically on auto-pilot whenever my mind wandered off.

But it still wasn't a good habit. Not exactly one I was going to break anytime soon…but I still acknowledge that it's not a good habit.

A plasma charge caught the marine to my left in the chest, flaring a bright blue as it made contact with the man's torso. The man fell forward without a sound.

That was another thing you learned after experiencing combat; people don't die the way you see them go down in war movies—flailing limbs, bodies getting spun around like tops—it just doesn't work like that, unless you get hit by some kind of shotgun.

Basically, if you get shot in the center of mass—chest, torso, stomach—you just go down face-first like a puppet with its strings cut. Usually, the only time your body actually flops around or falls backwards is when you get shot in the head.

This gritty realism may not look quite as good on celluloid, but when it's actually happening all around you…even the goriest of war movies cannot do it justice. And rightly so. True war belongs on the battlefield, not the television. Let the people have their fantasies.

I neutralized the operator of another shade turret was we continued to move up, stepping over our slain comrades and around gutted tanks. More often than I would like to admit, I stepped in something soft and squishy. I never looked down.

The first wave of our assault reached the Covies' first string of energy barriers, shade turrets, plasma cannons, and other fortifications after what felt like hours of walking into a lattice of razor wire.

"Anyone have charges?" an Army Lieutenant was shouting. "We need these barriers down!"

"I think Donowitz has some!" another man exclaimed.

"Donowitz got torn in half by that fuel rod burst back at the cables!" a marine shook his head.

Our scarab took out two of the Covies' assault platforms—those round, purple platforms suspended by anti-grav generators. We felt the force and heat of those explosions, hunkered against the first line of Covie energy shields.

We bickered for several more seconds about where to get explosives until Cajun arrived. "I got me some fireworks, boys'n girls! Everybody stand-"

"_Hey, youse guys!_" a loud, obnoxious voice suddenly crackled forth from all of our COMs, interrupting Cajun. "_Yeah, youse guys in front of the energy barriers! Get the fuck outta the way!_"

The voice had belonged to the commander of an M1-Delta tank—the one which was flying towards us as its top speed. Well, I had no way of being certain that the transmission came from that particular tank, but it was a pretty fair guess.

The Lieutenant howled for his men to move, getting them out of the way. Cajun grabbed me by the shoulder and yanked me to the side, and not a second too soon. Just as we got clear of the energy shields, the dragon slammed into them and crashed right through.

A scorpion and another dragon were hot on its heels. Other dragons were repeating the same maneuver all over the Covenant line of defenses, punching right through the barriers at their top speed.

"Crazy sons of bitches," Cajun admonished, shaking his head in wonder as he watched the tanks go. Memories from our experience on Salamis II were probably still running through his mind.

General Eckhart's scarab crossed the first line and fired its main cannon once again, tearing through several ghosts and a wraith.

There were two marines near me with rocket launchers, and they were keeping up fire on the Covie vehicles. On more than one occasion, I could have sworn I'd seen five familiar, translucent figures weaving through the Covie infantry, killing indiscriminately. Every time I tried to get a better look, though, they vanished.

I took out the turret gunner in one of the retreating wraiths, cutting off the steady stream of plasma that was flying from it. Soon after, one of the rocket jockeys hit the wraith's mortar, disabling it completely.

Our advance was beginning to get bogged down. The Army Lieutenant who had been at the energy barriers was cut down by shrapnel not long after the dragons breached the line. There were other officers—both Marine and Army—on the bridge, but they were scattered and isolated from one another.

I saw the Master Sergeant trying to rally a large group of men on the other side of the bridge before a plasma bolt from a wraith slammed into the asphalt right in the middle of the group. Body parts littered the bridge, as well as blackened bits of armor and weapons. The men and women who'd been hit directly by the bolt simply ceased to exist.

I didn't have time to see if the Master Sergeant had survived. We had to keep moving forward.

By now, forces from the second wave had caught up with us. They had gone more slowly than the first wave, cleaning up the mess we'd left behind us. Now they reached us and added their momentum to our own.

Bolstered by the second wave, our advance regained some of its former steam.

Celt soon joined Cajun and me, and we all gathered with another five or six marines behind one of the dragons, jogging at a brisk pace to keep behind the tank, covering our ears every four or five seconds as the heavy battle tank fired its payload.

Though the second wave helped keep the assault moving, the one thing that had kept this entire attack from falling apart was the scarab. Had it not been for the scarab, this giant machine of death, constantly raining plasma down on the Covie defenders, weakening their lines wherever we attacked, constantly moving forward, constantly pushing the Covies back…we wouldn't have made it halfway to the first line of defenses without that kind of firepower supporting us.

We couldn't call in air or artillery support, either, because there was a good chance the kind of ordinance they'd send our way would end up destroying the entire bridge…with us still on it. Not a good idea.

We had artillery pounding the eastern bank of the Dnieper, and maybe it was making all the difference in the world. But if it was, I sure as hell could see it. All I saw were tanks getting blown up and soldiers getting mown down.

Had it all really come down to this? Did we really have to throw so many lives away just for one measly little bridge? If I were a general or an ONI strategist, I think I'd be able to more clearly see why the Battle for Kiev hinged on this bridge…but I wasn't a general, or an ONI strategist. I was one of the low-ranking guys getting butchered on the front lines. The intricacies and consequences that rested with this bridge were unknown to me.

And regardless, I had zero time to dwell upon such things. All I had time to think about was where I was running, what I was shooting at, and—to some extent—what was heading my way.

Every time I tried to assume a good sniping position from around the back of the dragon we were hunkered down behind, I'd nearly get plastered with plasmafire. After my fifth or sixth attempt at doing this, I lost patience and jumped up onto the back of the dragon.

"Scar, what the fuck're ya doin'?" Cajun exclaimed.

"My goddamn job," I snapped, pulling myself onto the top of the dragon's rear platform. I took a moment to steady myself as the tank rumbled forward, blasting away with its main cannon and its ball-mounted frontal machinegun.

I knelt, keeping myself covered from the front by the rotating turret that the main cannon was attached to. I took aim at a jackal sniper who was picking off marines and soldiers from behind the Covies' second line of defense, which was located at the halfway mark of the bridge.

I shifted my aim and fired at a Brute captain, but my rifle clicked empty. I had forgotten to reload. I swore loudly, ejecting the empty mag and slapping a fresh one in, but my target had vanished. I settled for a pair of lower-ranking Brutes who were about to board a revenant.

My dragon fired its main cannon in tandem with the dozen or so other dragons remaining on the bridge, assisted by the weaker—and more numerous—scorpion tanks. Several more shade turrets and wraiths brewed up in flames. There were more Covenant plasma bolts in reply, more destroyed tanks…

The rest of our armor began rumbling onto the Moskovskyi Bridge to support their comrades. Their addition gave us enough momentum to power right through the Covies' second line of defense.

We now owned half of the Moskovskyi Bridge.

In the middle of this part of the Dnieper River lay a long, sizeable, tree-covered island that stretched far to the north of Kiev. Its southern tip extended down into the river between Obolon and Desna Districts before breaking up into smaller islets further south. The first half of the Moskovskyi Bridge spanned the western bank to the island, and the second half spanned the island to the eastern bank.

Now that we had taken the halfway point, we were able to bring in air support in to deal with the Covies who remained on the island. Unfortunately, we were still on our own when it came to retaking the second half of the bridge itself. But now that we had air support, we could start flying tanks straight in to this island, and then we could fly the wounded straight out.

The Covies' third line of defense was a little over a hundred-fifty yards from the eastern bank. We had a good stretch of open bridge that we needed to cover before we could reach it.

"Keep it moving, boys!" General Eckhart was shouting from the scarab as the massive captured machine kept 'walking' forward, across the island and onto the next half of the Moskovskyi Bridge. "Don't give 'em a chance to catch their breath!"

Our forces regrouped and funneled back onto the bridge, leaving a trail of dead and wounded in our wake. This would take a while to clean up.

I hopped off of my dragon and rejoined my two squadmates.

I saw technicians working on a bunch of warthogs, running wires around the seats and under the hoods. Before I could see what they were doing, I was swept up by the tide of bodies back into the assault.

This stage of the assault went much like the opening few minutes—tanks opening the firefight with a thunderous barrage, supported by the scarab, while our infantry kept level with the armor.

Just as the Covenant plasma started to tear back into us, though, we pulled something unexpected. Very unexpected…but I think the timing was perfect. Of all the stages in the attack on the bridge, this current stage was the best one to take off the gloves.

The tanks slowed down a tad, and they rearranged their formation, opening up several pathways to the front of the advance. I was hunkered behind a dragon with Celt, Cajun, and a few marines, so I couldn't see all of what was going on, but I was able to piece together what had happened based on what I _did_ see.

Those warthogs the techs had been working on suddenly blew right past us, speeding down the open pathways cleared by the moving tanks. They were unmanned—the drivers must have rigged the gas pedals so that they stayed floored.

That turned out to be crucial, because once the warthogs crashed into the Covie defenses…they blew up. That wouldn't have ended so well if there were still drivers in those jeeps.

There had been five warthogs rigged with explosives, and they each blew small gaps into the Covenant defenses. But it wasn't the physical damage the warthog-bombs incurred that was significant—it was the fact that it disoriented and disorganized the Covies manning the defenses. Having jeeps blow up in your face tends to daze one a little bit.

The tanks had already sped up once the warthogs had passed them. By the time they blew up, our armor was closing in fast on the third line of defense. We had to sprint to keep up with them. The dragons and scorpions opened fire, their main cannons belching flame as they hurled high-explosive and armor-piercing rounds into the wraiths and revenants waiting on the other side of the defenses.

Several tanks also fired canister rounds into the Covie infantry—now _that_ was fun to watch. Or, rather, it _would_ have been fun to watch if I hadn't been distracted by the little battle raging all around me.

The dragons bulled right through the remaining energy shields, just like they'd done earlier on. They kept right on rolling, opening fire on the last line of Covie defenses on the Moskovskyi Bridge. General Eckhart's scarab joined them in this effort, leaving it to the smaller scorpions and us good little infantrymen to clean up the mess of the third line of defense.

Celt went ahead of me as the scorpions rumbled over the wreckage of the defenses. He climbed to the top of the pile of rubble that was all that was left of the Covie defenses and hosed a trio of grunts with his rifle.

The marines were right behind him, adding their firepower to his own. I used my magnum against the grunts and jackals. Those smaller Covies weren't worth spending rounds from my sniper rifle on. The only time I ever sniper grunts or jackals was when they respectively either had fuel rod guns, or were sniping.

My M6D magnum had a scope that linked to my HUD, so I guess I still kind of _was_ sniping, in a way. I took down another two jackals as I clambered over the rubble of the Covie defenses.

"_Keep moving!_" an officer was shouting from not too far away. "Stay with the dragons! Keep moving!"

Easier said than done. The dragons had smashed through the barriers, but they'd left a good part of the Covie infantry in their wake. We had to waste those Covies before we could continue the advance. At least we had several of the scorpions backing us up.

Celt and Cajun moved on ahead, but I took my time, planting bullets into the foreheads of any higher-ranking Brutes I came across. At long range, of course. I guess I'm just a coward like that.

Two marines bearing a heavy fifty deployed their machinegun turret at the top of one of the mounds of ruins and opened fire on the remaining Brutes, tearing several of them to shreds. One of them went down with spiker rounds protruding from his leg and chest like porcupine quills, and the other had to take over.

I slid down to the other side of the rubble and hit the asphalt, getting a move on once again.

My luck ran out just as we started attacking the fourth and final line of defense.

Our artillery was pounding the Covenant positions just shy of the bridge, and we'd have air support standing by once we broke out onto the eastern bank. Our scarab was reducing the energy shields to ashes, one by one. Our dragons were roaring forward, breathing fire from their main cannons like the mythical beasts for which they were named.

Our third wave of reinforcements caught up to us as we advanced on that final line, and our infantry surged forward.

I managed to snipe a Brute chieftain while running. I didn't actually kill the Covie; I just caught him in the head and knocked out his shields. Someone else would have the honor of finishing him off for me. And I was fine with that.

Then pain quite literally ripped through my lower-right abdomen. I was spun around ninety degrees to the right before crumpling to the ground, landing on my back. I looked down and swore quietly when I saw the spiker round protruding from my gut, still glowing yellow.

It wasn't so much that there was a spiker round lodged near my stomach that really pissed me off; it was the fact that it had hit me in pretty much the exact same place where I'd gotten hit by a needler shard during the defense of my house in Darnytsia. That wound had only just healed…

I bared my teeth in a grimace as I pushed myself into a sitting-up position, and from there onto my feet. I took a deep breath and picked up my sniper rifle, taking one step forward, then another, and then another, until I was limping along at a steady pace.

This was such an incredibly bad idea. I shouldn't be moving with a wound like this; the risk of internal bleeding was too great. But at the same time…I didn't want to lie useless and bleeding on the asphalt until the assault was over. I still wanted to contribute.

I limped over to the husk of a destroyed wraith and pulled myself up on top, taking great care to avoid the still-burning blue-white fires that were a result of the wraith's plasma mortar getting mauled.

I centered my crosshairs on another Brute captain and fired, taking a little off the top as a barber would say. I shifted my aim to a jackal sniper perched up in the cables that were suspended over the sides of the bridge. After I fired, it's headless corpse pitched sideways and plummeted into the dark, icy waters of the Dnieper River below.

Blood was beginning to trickle down my armor and onto my leg, mixing with the water from the rain. The rainstorm began to swell back into its deluge state, and this made it even more difficult to snipe due to the decreased visibility. I was still able to manage, though. I'd sniped in worse conditions than these in my fifteen years as a Helljumper.

Eventually, though, I was able to see the dragons and our scarab punch through that final line of defenses. I saw hornet gunships descend out of the rainclouds, pounding the Covie forces on the eastern bank with missiles, helping our boys gain a foothold.

I slid off the wraith and jogged as fast as I could—which wasn't very fast—making my way towards the other end of the bridge. I pushed my way through the rubble of the fourth line of defense, and I stopped again to provide long-range support for my comrades.

Had the Covies been able to mobilize to their full strength, I think we would have lost a lot more men breaking out of the bridge than we did today. They would have established additional lines of defense—trenches, heavy weapons, anti-tank emplacements; all sorts of goodies that they hadn't been able to fit on the somewhat narrow Moskovskyi Bridge.

But we had taken the initiative. General Eckhart had struck first, _before_ the Covenant could mobilize the numbers needed for such an efficient defense. Add this to the fact that the Covenant military really isn't used to playing defense against us…it was still pretty bloody, but the circumstances were favorable to us.

It was just a very costly kind of 'favorable'.

The Covenant defense had all but crumbled. They hadn't been destroyed—they simply pulled back to a more secure position. But they had been fatally weakened. We now owned this part of the eastern bank, forcing them further into Desna District. With us here, and with General Ndebele raging westward right up their asses…they were about to be in a very tight spot.

I managed to reach the eastern bank before collapsing once again from blood loss. I wasn't unconscious, yet…just dizzy and disoriented. Now that the assault was over and our position on the eastern bank began to stabilize, the medics were out in full force, getting the wounded off the bridge and back to the combat surgeons.

Athos Patrikos and others of his ilk would be busy these next few days.

A corpsman stumbled across me, lying next to a destroyed scorpion tank in front of the bridge's entrance. He hollered something to a person I couldn't see. Another strong pair of hands grasped me by the shoulders and hauled me to my feet.

"Don't got any stretchers, Gunny," the corpsman apologized. "We'll have to walk you to a pelican."

I honestly couldn't care less. The Moskovskyi Bridge was ours, now, as well as part of the eastern bank. Soon, General Eckhart would unite with General Ndebele, and then we would no longer be starving, half-frozen shadows of men, waiting for the Covies to steamroll right through us.

We would be UNSC soldiers, once more. We'd be dead men fighting to become alive again.

I just hoped I won't be stuck in recovery for too long… I wanted to see this battle out to the end. I wanted to see General Eckhart set up his HQ in the Mariyinsky Palace once more. I wanted to return to my house…but this time as a liberator, not as a desperate survivor.

Unfortunately, I wouldn't get the chance.

* * *

**END OF SECTION VI**


	92. VII Chapter 92: Pilgrimage

**Section VII: Endgame**

* * *

Chapter Ninety-Two: Pilgrimage

**November 17, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
****Earth, Sol System**

I fucking hate field hospitals.

Please don't take that the wrong way; I don't hate the hospitals themselves…I just hate being_ in_ them. The smell of blood made my head hurt. Normally it didn't affect me, but when you have to breathe it for six days, cooped up in a stuffy post-op recovery tent…

The tent was, as I said, stuffy. It was freezing cold outside, so maybe that wasn't such a bad thing…but stuffy is never comfortable, no matter what the circumstances were. And it was _crowded_. This tent was packed to the very maximum limit with wounded soldiers.

Most of the men and women stuck in here with me were marines and soldiers from the charge across the bridge. There were a few tank crewmen, as well, but not many. For the men and women who are part of the tank corps…well, usually they either go through a battle without a scratch, or they die as an unfortunate side effect of having their tanks blown the fuck up. The point is, they never have as many wounded as the infantry.

The more heavily wounded were always groaning from the pain of their injuries. If I was stuck here any longer, I think I'd be driven out of my mind. That psychiatrist back in Fort Hood would get to see me again, and this time it would be for real.

"Just a little bit longer, Scar," the Master Sergeant said to me from the adjacent cot.

My squad leader had ended up here around the same time as me. His wounds had been plasma burns and shrapnel penetration, though, whereas mine had been from a spiker round. He'd needed the burnt flesh removed and flash-cloned skin grafts to be put in place.

As for me, I'd lost my appendix and a small part of one of my intestines—I'd stopped Doc Patrikos from giving me the full details. I was alive, breathing, and my trigger finger still functioned. No need to get more in-depth than that.

I don't know if the Master Sergeant was a psychic, or if he'd known ahead of time that Commander Angiers would be paying us a visit, but he'd been right when he'd said _just a little bit longer_.

"I need a clean bill of health for these men, Colonel," the thin, pale-faced spook was saying to Doc Patrikos as they entered the tent and came within earshot.

"I'd feel much better if they were given another two days to rest and recuperate," the Doctor was insisting. "You cannot rush the human body."

"You can't tell the Covies to slow down their operations, either," Commander Angiers argued. "I'm taking my men back whether you like it or not. I'd _like_ to have your permission, but I do not require it. I need Gunnery Sergeant Garris and Master Sergeant-"

"Going over my head will not be necessary," Colonel Patrikos sighed, cutting the spook off midsentence. "I'll release them to you…but I'm doing this under protest. Make sure that goes on record."

"Duly noted," the Commander inclined his head slightly.

"Good morning, Hellumpers," Doc Patrikos said to us as he reached our two cots. I don't know if the Doctor knew that we'd overheard pretty much his entire conversation, but he didn't seem to care all that much.

"It's morning?" the Master Sergeant arched, glancing into the darkness outside the tent.

"It is fourteen minutes past midnight," Commander Angiers clarified. "Technically morning."

Athos Patrikos produced a datapad from inside his greatcoat, holding it out to my squad leader. "Alright, Master Sergeant, just press your thumb to the green square, and you're a free man."

"Thanks, Doc," the Master Sergeant complied, pressing his thumb to the datapad. It chirped once and flashed white.

"You can thank me by making sure the Covies don't ruin my handiwork," the combat surgeon replied, entering several more commands into the datapad before holding it out to me. "And now you, Gunnery Sergeant."

I placed my thumb onto the pulsing green square, and it flashed yellow as well. Doc Patrikos took his datapad back and tucked it into his greatcoat. He shook both of our hands, then stepped back.

"They're all yours, Commander," Patrikos gave the spook a quick glare as he passed him by, ducking out of the tent and into the night. No, I'm sorry…into the _morning_.

"Alright, men, let's take a walk," Commander Angiers gestured for us to follow him.

The Master Sergeant and I swung ourselves out of our cots and followed our ONI handler out of the tent. We stopped by the storage tents to pick up our weapons and armor, and once we were all suited up and ready for combat, we followed Angiers out of Two Lakes—that's what everyone had started calling the large field hospital between Kyrylivs'ke and Yordans'ke Lakes.

The Commander took us to a warthog and drove it westward. We stopped somewhere in central Sviatoshyn District. There was a pelican dropship waiting for us in the middle of a large square that seemed to have been converted into a mini-airstrip.

Apache, Celt, and Cajun were all inside the pelican's troop bay. They all rose to their feet, saluting the Commander as he stepped into the dropship. The Master Sergeant and I entered the pelican right after him.

"I'm sure all of you have your fair share of questions as to what the hell we're doing right now," Commander Angiers said to all of us. "Once we're on our way, I'll answer what I can. Until then, sit tight for a few minutes. Ah, here comes our pilot. Strap in, boys."

Flight Captain François Rousseau stepped into the pelican last. He must have sprinted here—he was panting slightly, and the red lights of the troop bay reflected off the sheen of his sweat. He gave us a quick wave before heading into the cockpit and firing up the pelican's engines.

Commander Angiers ducked into the cockpit after the pilot, sealing the door behind him. We rose up into the sky as Rousseau fired the thrusters and sent us up into the air, leaving Kiev behind.

Even though it was pitch-dark outside, I could still see the millions of fires that burned in Kiev as a result of the furious fighting that was still raging between the reinvigorated UNSC forces and the Covenant invaders.

The Master Sergeant and I learned from our squadmates that General Eckhart's men had linked up with General Ndebele's forces twelve or so hours after the Moskovskyi Bridge had been taken. But that wasn't even the best part.

The best part was that a _third_ relief force—commanded personally by General Nicholas Strauss from the HIGHCOM Security Council—had been mobilized in Budapest and had arrived three days after the capture of the Moskovskyi Bridge. They'd slammed right up through Holosiiv District and driven the Covies mostly out of western Kiev.

Right now, the three united forces were in the process of surrounding the Covies left in Darnytsia. The offensive would resume tomorrow…but it didn't look like we were going to be a part of it.

The rear hatch closed as we reached the cloud line and settled into a relatively stable flight. Just like being on an airplane. A supersonic-capable airplane armed with rotary fifty-caliber autocannons and ANVIL-II missiles.

Once we were underway, Commander Angiers unsealed the cockpit and stepped back out into the troop bay, taking a seat next to Celt and Apache, opposite the Master Sergeant, Cajun, and me.

"Kiev is in good hands, now," the Commander said to us. "The city will be ours within the week. I'll admit, I never expected those words to come out of my mouth anytime in the near future."

"_Amen,_" Cajun muttered.

"Amen indeed," the Commander grunted in agreement. "But now I shall turn our attention to the here and now. Right now, Captain Rousseau is flying us to Jerusalem, where we will get refueled. From there, we will proceed to East Africa—Kenya, to be precise."

"Isn't that where the Covies hit us first?" Apache asked, recalling what we had learned at another briefing that had taken place a long time ago.

"Yes and no," Angiers replied. "The Covies attacked the city of Mombasa, which is located in the nation of Kenya, but that is not where we are going. We are heading to the Taita Hills, a little over a hundred miles northwest of Mombasa."

"Never heard of 'em," Cajun shrugged.

"Well, it's not the hills that are important—it's the old UNSC base built into Chawia Hill that is important. Crow's Nest is what we're calling it. It was an old missile control center built several centuries ago by a military alliance called NATO," the spook explained. "Now, we're using it as a command center for all of our forces in the Tsavo Region—these forces comprise mostly of the remnants of the units that had been stationed in Mombasa. I've been ordered by HIGHCOM to take command of the ground operation from Commander Keyes."

"And where exactly do we factor into all this?" I asked. "I mean, if it's important enough for HIGHCOM to yank you—and for you to yank _us_—from Kiev…what's going on, here?"

"To be perfectly honest, I do not have all the answers you seek," the Commander said to me. "After Mombasa got fried, the Covies sent their cruisers deeper into Kenya, and they starting burning away the countryside not too far east of the Taita Hills. Five days ago, they found something…a giant artifact, and I mean _giant;_ I'm talking fourteen, fifteen miles high. We are planning a two-staged assault against this Covenant Loyalist force. This is the largest concentration of Covenant on the planet—larger, even, than the forces they sent into the Ukraine. Yesterday, Fleet Admiral Hood personally commanded an attack on this artifact. The attack was repulsed by a battery of Loyalist anti-aircraft emplacements centered around the town of Voi, which is fourteen kilometers east of Crow's Nest, right at the edge of the area where the Brutes started digging."

"So we're going to be attacking Voi, I'm assuming?" Apache asked.

"Eventually, yes," Angiers nodded. "We will have to neutralize the Loyalist air defenses, which will usher in stage two of the assault; a massive naval airstrike, led by Admiral Hood himself. Hopefully that'll blast the Covies back to the Stone Age and drive them out of Tsavo."

"We getting any help from the split-chins on this one?" Celt asked next.

Wait, _what?_

Commander Angiers shook his head. "Last I heard, the Elites have a fleet on the way here, but it hasn't arrived yet. We should proceed with the assumption that they will not arrive in time."

"Whoa, whoa, back the motherfuck up!" the Master Sergeant exclaimed. That drew raised eyebrows from everyone present in the troop bay; the Master Sergeant rarely ever said _damn,_ let alone the words on the more vulgar end of the profanity scale. But in this case, the Master Sergeant was speaking for me as well. "What's all this about the Elites?"

My squadmates stared at us. "Ya really don' know?" Cajun asked, disbelief. The Louisianan turned to the spook. "Ya didn' tell 'em?"

For once, Commander Angiers seemed to be at a slight loss for words. "I… I had assumed you already knew. News of it came three days ago."

"The Elites are on our side, now," Apache informed us, slicing right through all the bullshit and giving it to us straight.

Dead silence. That was the only response the Master Sergeant or myself gave. We had our helmets on and polarized, so our facial expressions weren't even visible. We might as well have been statues.

"Details," the Master Sergeant said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Now."

For the next hour or so, Commander Angiers and the others fed us bits and fragments of a story that they had managed to piece together. We all knew that a Covie assault carrier had executed an in-atmosphere slipspace jump over Mombasa, leveling much of the city.

After that was where the rumors and reports got fuzzy. But among all the varying accounts was one constant—a mysterious, ring-shaped alien world. Celt and I shared a glance with each other as Commander Angiers mentioned it.

A small force of marines and ODSTs had pursued that assault carrier from Mombasa to this alleged ringworld—it couldn't have been Halo, because that ringworld had been destroyed…which led to the explanation that there was more than one.

The Commander said he had no idea what exactly had transpired on that ringworld. But two days ago, the remnants of that small force returned to Earth…with a representative of the Elites by their side. A truce had been struck between the Humans and Elites during the battle on that ringworld.

I slowly removed my helmet and pressed my hands to my temples. My held felt like it was about to explode. A wave of nausea rolled through my gut and I had to take several deep breaths to keep it suppressed.

The Master Sergeant took the news a lot better than me. Older men usually always take horrible news stoically, and the Master Sergeant was one of the oldest in the military. Technically, he was sixty-one years old, but biologically—due to time spent in slipspace—he had the physiology of a man in his early to mid-fifties. And his physical health and fitness still exceeded that of many men who were still in their prime.

I knew the Commander and my squadmates were telling the truth...but that was very different than actually _believing_ them. I just couldn't bring myself to believe them. It was an odd clash of logic. I mean, sure, I'd worked together with that Ultra back on Halo, but that hadn't exactly been the idea alliance. If the Flood hadn't been there, that Ultra and I would've happily cut each others' throats.

And a lone Human and Elite working together is far, _far_ different than the two armies working in tandem.

"What could possibly have happened to make us ally with the Covenant?" I murmured slowly.

"Not the Covenant," Commander Angiers was quick to correct me. "Just the Elites. And the Hunters, too—most of them, at least. And many of the grunts. The hierarchy of the Covenant seems to be in disarray."

"So you're saying the Covies are having themselves a little civil war?" the Master Sergeant raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not saying anything," the spook answered evenly, choosing his words carefully. "But if I were to take an educated, off-the-record _guess_… I'd _guess_ the Covies were having themselves a little civil war."

When I thought about it, this story _did_ explain why the Elites had suddenly vanished soon after the fall of Darnystia District. And when I thought about it, although there had still been Hunters and grunts attacking us after the Elites disappeared…the number of them had definitely decreased.

I fell back into my state of deep thought, pondering these new revelations. What was I supposed to do if I saw another Elite? Shake its hand? Offer it a beer? What the fuck was I supposed to do?

Are we just supposed to fight alongside them and pretend that they weren't the ones who have butchered our race for nearly thirty years?

Before I knew it, it was nearly daybreak, and we were coming in for a landing in Jerusalem. Local UNSC forces had closed off part of the Old City for use of a refit and refueling station for transports moving between Africa and Europe.

Some of the more religious individuals in the area had violently protested to having UNSC soldiers occupying the Temple Mount, but Colonel Javalera—the officer who was running the show, here—had politely threatened to open fire on the crowd unless they dispersed.

The Colonel was waiting for us on the makeshift airstrip, shaking hands with Commander Angiers and trading salutes with the Master Sergeant and the rest of us. "Welcome to the Kingdom of Heaven," she removed her sunglasses, beckoning for us to follow her into the base that her marines had set up. "Such as it is."

There were dozens of pelicans, albatrosses, and other aircraft sitting idle in the open area surrounding the Temple Mount. We weren't the first ones here, and we definitely wouldn't be the last.

Colonel Javalera's command tent had been set up in front of the Dome of the Rock. She headed inside with Commander Angiers as they discussed logistics for our trip. There were a lot of transports needing refueling and rearming, but we had to be in East Africa as soon as possible. After a minute, Commander Angiers reemerged and told us to report back to the pelican in forty-five minutes. Until then, we were free to roam the base.

Pilots and soldiers were milling about the Old City, though most of them were sticking to the more populated Muslim Quarter. There were many things there that would keep soldiers occupied. Cajun and Celt headed off that way as well.

Apache and I followed the Master Sergeant through the streets of the Old City until we came across a tall, stone citadel near the western wall. It was well over a thousand years old—like many things in this part of the city—and its tower had a view of the entire area.

"The Tower of David…" the Master Sergeant murmured as we walked through the gardens outside the structure. Inside the citadel, we passed through several rooms and corridors before ascending the stairs to the top of the tower.

This place would normally be buzzing with tourists, I'd imagine. But with the Covies doing what they were doing…tourism wasn't exactly what the people of Earth were thinking about, right now. There was a museum that occupied several rooms of the citadel, but it, too, was completely empty.

We made it to the top of the Tower of David in time for daybreak. I don't know if tourists were allowed to go to the top, but we weren't exactly tourists, now, were we?

"It's just as I remember it," the Master Sergeant removed his helmet as he watched the sunrise, his salt-and-pepper hair and beard fluttering in the breeze. "When I was little, my father would sometimes take me to the old city walls to watch the sunrise…and I'd see this tower, and I'd always ask him if we could watch it from up here, but the tower was never open that early. I had a hard time understanding that. But this is what I missed the most, I think, after we moved to Harvest."

Apache and I removed our helmets, as well, squinting into the deep red sunrise. "It's a good sunrise," Apache conceded. "But I prefer the sunrise of the Black Hills. When the light hits the fog, it…"

My two comrades each continued to talk about places on Earth that I'd never even heard of, before. This was the first time I'd ever set foot on our homeworld, come to think of it. I'll admit, it is a completely different place than the colonies. The population was much higher and denser, and most of the planet was inhabited. The only colonies that even came close were the main hubs like Reach or Sigma Octanus IV.

"Either of you know of Balian of Ibelin?" the Master Sergeant asked after several minutes of silence. By then, the sun had begun to brighten into its normal yellow brilliance.

"Famous online porn star?" I guessed.

"Not exactly," my squad leader threw me a sidelong glare. "The Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem fell to Saladin in a great battle many centuries ago. The Christian army had been all but destroyed at Hattin, resulting in most of the nobility being captured by the Muslims. Balian of Ibelin was the only nobleman left to defend Jerusalem. One baron, with a defending force of a few thousand men—most of them common rank-and-file soldiers and volunteers—suddenly left with an entire city to defend."

I stared down at the Old City and tried to picture it as it was in the Twelfth Century. I tried to see the men-at-arms, the spearmen, the archers all rushing through the streets, scrambling to get into position. It was mind-boggling how different warfare had been back then, compared to how it was conducted today…

"And Saladin…the Muslims came to Jerusalem with a force of as many as two hundred thousand," the Master Sergeant continued to explain, watching the sun climb higher and higher into the sky, casting the city of Jerusalem into the long shadows of early morning. He pointed northwest, out across the walls, over the modern part of the city. "Balian of Ibelin probably stood at this very spot and watched two hundred thousand Saracens thunder towards his garrison… I just find this very interesting, because, after holding those lines in Kiev, I think I know exactly how he felt."

And the Master Sergeant wasn't the only one. I tried to continue picturing what it would have been like to see Saladin's army marching on Jerusalem…but every time I tried, I saw run-down wooden walls, instead of the city walls. I saw window frames instead of battlements. I saw snow-covered asphalt roads instead of the desert. I saw Covenant troops advancing towards me instead of Saracens.

Oh, yes, I'd had my own personal little Siege of Jerusalem. My own little Alamo. I didn't need to try and imagine what it had been like… I already know what it had been like.

The three of us stood silent, watching the sun continue to rise, watching the city come to life, until forty minutes just passed us by, and we had to return to the Temple Mount.

"Your chariot awaits you, sires!" Captain Rousseau waved over to us from his pelican. Celt and Cajun were already in the troop bay.

Rousseau got himself settled into the cockpit and began to fire up the engines once more. Commander Angiers showed up less than a minute later, exchanging a few final words with Colonel Javalera.

He then stepped into the troop bay and nodded to Captain Rousseau. "To Kenya, my friends," he ordered.

"Aye, sir," Captain Rousseau hollered back from the cockpit, firing the thrusters and sending us back up into the sky. This time, it was Jerusalem we left behind.

"A fascinating country, Israel," the Master Sergeant mused as we climbed higher into the sky, watching the Dead Sea and the rest of the surrounding area recede into the distance. "Fascinating country. I'd like to come back."

"Don't get yer head blown off, and ya jus' might get the chance!" Cajun chuckled.

We spent the second half of our flight in relative silence. We followed the Red Sea southeast, and Captain Rousseau announced when we crossed over the sea and into Ethiopia, and later when we crossed the border into Kenya, but that was mostly it.

It wasn't until we could see Mount Kilimanjaro in the distance that we started to get ready for landing. "Crow's Nest flight control, this is Whiskey-One-Four-Two requesting clearance to dock, over," I heard Captain Rousseau try to raise our destination over the COM.

He got no response.

The pilot exchanged a quick glance with Commander Angiers before trying again. "Crow's Nest flight control, this is Whiskey-One-Four-Two requesting clearance to dock. Please respond, over."

Still nothing.

"Uh…" Cajun was staring through one of the viewports. "Y'all mentioned that this base was built into one o' them hills, right?" he turned to look back at the rest of us.

"That is correct," the Commander nodded.

Cajun swallowed nervously. "It wasn't _that_ hill, was it?" he gestured to the viewport.

Commander Angiers pulled Cajun aside and looked through the viewport to see for himself. He stood rock-solid still for a few moments. I heard him suck in a breath between his teeth and mutter something unintelligible.

He then straightened up and turned around, his expression remaining neutral. "Captain Rousseau, I'm afraid we'll need to change our destination."

"Crow's Nest a bust, sir?" Captain Rousseau queried.

"You could say that," Commander Angiers nodded, heading into the cockpit to join the pilot. "It's on fire."


	93. VII Chapter 93: Temporary Victories

Chapter Ninety-Three: Temporary Victories

**November 17, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

We all took turns gazing down out of the viewport. When Rousseau dropped the rear ramp, we were able to look out the back of the pelican, as well.

We all were staring at one of the lush, jungle-covered hills below. The one with fire, smoke, and ash spewing from it. Upon closer examination, we could see that the places where the fire was shooting out of were the remains of hangar bays, not the hill itself.

As Captain Rousseau had said just an instant ago, Crow's Nest was a bust—both figuratively and literally.

Rousseau banked away from Crow's Nest. There were bound to be Covie fliers in the area if a battle had just recently been waged here. I'm sure Rousseau would be able to handle an attack by banshees…but why tempt Fate?

"Sir, I'm picking up COM chatter from the ground," Captain Rousseau reported, unconsciously touching two fingers to his right ear. "Hard to make out…lots of static…the Covies must have jammers set up along the highway."

"What can you get from it?" Angiers asked.

"Just a minute, sir," Captain Rousseau concentrated on trying to decipher the garbled transmissions that he was receiving from the ground. "I, uh…sir, I think Commander Keyes is attacking Voi, right now."

"Has she lost her mind?" the Commander nearly shouted, his immaculate composure slipping. But as quickly as it had slipped, his composure returned, and his voice went back to its normal, cool, emotionless tone. "All of the forces in and around Tsavo were going to be fully mobilized in five days; they're attacking Voi with little more than a battalion at best. And an incomplete one, at that."

"That can't be _everything_ we have," Celt sounded skeptical. "If this area is such a big hotspot, shouldn't there be at least an entire expeditionary force, here?"

"It's much harder to get troops into Kenya than it is to get them into the Ukraine," Commander Angiers pointed out. "And we have several regiments in the area, but they are scattered throughout the jungle. The plan was to mobilize them around Crow's Nest, and then we'd hit Voi with everything we had. But now it seems plans have changed… Captain Rousseau, proceed to Voi. Try and find us a viable LZ."

"On it," Rousseau sent us into a wide bank and we began heading east, away from the Taita Hills and towards Voi.

"Look at all that junk down there," Celt was standing at the deployment ramp, holding on the side of the pelican, staring down at the savanna below.

There were massive heaps of debris littering the plains and hills of the Tsavo region. Some of them were simply piles and lengths of twisted, ruined metal, others were ring-shaped…others still were several rings still connected by their girders.

It had to be the remains of the Mombasa Space Elevator. Back on Harvest, the Tiara space station had had seven space elevators that stretched all the way down to Utgard—I'd recognize the debris of one of those bad boys anywhere.

That Covie assault carrier jumping to slipspace right over Mombasa must have been what had toppled the thing. If we made it through this battle by some miracle of nature, that elevator would be a bit of a bitch to rebuild. At least it wouldn't be _my_ job.

Captain Rousseau flew us in low, close to the ground. We actually ran into a pair of banshees along the way, but Rousseau was able to make short work of them before they realized he was on their tail.

The town of Voi came into view within the next minute or so. It was sort of a crossroads town, in a way. Three main roads—one running southeast to Mombasa, another running northwest to Nairobi, and the third heading west into Tanzania—all converged on Voi.

There had once been a large, manmade ocean inlet sitting right next to Voi that ran all the way back to Mombasa on the coast. When industry in Voi began to increase, the canal was built to ship materials straight to the Mombasa orbital elevator, where they could then be sent all over the globe.

The canal welled up into a giant lake that had once sat just to the east of Voi, hugging the town's docks. However, the massive crater that the Covies had blasted out of the ground, looking for their artifact—and I'll get back to that in just a sec—had all but obliterated this part of the canal. Where the large lake had once been, there was now just a deep depression in the earth, which made the docks seem like they'd been built at the edge of a towering cliff.

But now that I'd mentioned that crater…the Brute fleet had been carving massive swathes of dirt and bedrock away with their energy projectors for the past couple weeks, and the result was a huge stretch of barren, burned wasteland. Parts of it still glowed a hellish red from the heat of the glassing.

The Loyalist fleet—a couple dozen Covenant cruisers and three or four assault carriers—milling about in the clouds above the crater. Every so often one of them would blast another chunk of earth away with its beam weapon, but there didn't seem to be any real need for that, anymore.

I say this because they had already found the artifact that I have no doubt they'd been looking for. It was a massive circular pedestal—easily over fifty miles in diameter, maybe more. It was hard to really guess how large it was…

Surrounding the round pedestal were exactly fourteen monoliths that were lying flat on the ground, pointing outward, giving the entire structure the appearance of a flower, almost. A dirty, dusty, charred flower.

Sitting in the centre of the pedestal itself was another odd sight…some kind of ship, I would guess. It was tetrahedral in shape, with a forward triangular prow. It rested on three of its 'limbs'; all of which were slightly smaller than the fourth, which pointed straight up into the sky.

"Check out those clouds…" I murmured, gazing at the sky above the pedestal.

A storm was brewing over the crater, but it was no natural storm. Clouds had congregates directly over the pedestal in an odd, donut-shaped formation. It was still swirling angrily, constantly growing in size and intensity. It was donut-shaped, now, but it was quickly starting to look more like a bell.

Thunder could be heard booming faintly in the distance, and it was possible to see cloud-to-cloud lightning crackling and flashing in the depths of those unnatural clouds. With the breeze came the smell of rain, as well.

"Has that thing just been sitting there since we were cavemen?" Celt was wondering aloud, though I think he was asking a question that was on most of our minds. "And we've never…well…_noticed_ it until now?"

"Probably since _before_ we were cavemen," Commander Angiers replied. "Probably since before humans migrated out of Africa. And it was buried rather deep down in a place where no one would really bother to dig for anything. Tsavo is not exactly a population center."

"Commander, sir, I think I've found us a viable LZ," Captain Rousseau informed the spook. "The 77th Marine Regiment's Delta Company has taken up a position in the south of town; the residential district. Their position is still relatively stable."

"Set us down south of Voi, then," Commander Angiers ordered. He turned back to us. "You men will find the CO of that marine company and get a sit-rep. You are to give them whatever assistance they need until the cessation of hostilities in this area."

"Until the battle be over, ye mean?" Celt asked for clarification.

"Yes," Angiers gave a small sigh. "Until the battle is over."

The rest of us hid our grins. It had become something of a recurring joke between us to mock the Commander's use of that stiff, fancy jargon that was favored so much by HQ lackeys. He's never called us out on it…but I think he picked up on it a long time ago. Still didn't stop him from talking like a human Encyclopedia Britannica, though.

"Consider it done, sir," the Master Sergeant nodded, throwing Celt a warning glare when the Commander looked away.

Just as Angiers ordered, Captain Rousseau set us down just south of Voi. We couldn't get any closer, or else the battery of Brute AA emplacements would tear us to pieces.

Much of Voi was already on fire. The Brutes hadn't been kind to the city during their occupation. I don't know if any of Voi's original inhabitants were still around. The residential area seemed to be empty of civilians. I hoped that was because they had evacuated when they heard about what was happening in Mombasa. The alternative was somewhat…unappetizing to think of.

Once we were on the ground, my squadmates and I hopped out of the troop bay and onto the dirt.

"I'm heading to Tanzania to rendezvous with Admiral Hood and Commander Keyes," Commander Angiers told us. "I just got word that General Eckhart will arrive within the hour to take command of the ground operation here. I will assist the naval battlegroup in stage two of this assault. Help the marines take down that AA battery. Good luck, boys," he stepped back, bringing his hand up to his forehead in a quick salute, which we promptly returned.

"Good luck to you, sir," the Master Sergeant nodded to our handler as the pelican rose back up into the air, blasting off to the west.

"Yeah, like _he's_ the one who needs the luck," Cajun grunted, hefting his grenade launcher. "He gets ta sit in a goddamned ship while _we_ get ta run right into the Brutes' guns."

"I'm sure Captain Delucci could have used some of that luck," I said quietly.

That shut Cajun up, more or less.

Once we were situated, we started hoofing it north through the hills towards Voi and that company of marines. We didn't encounter anyone until we were practically on top of the marine company's position.

"Who goes there? Identify yourselves!" a voice called out from the underbrush nearby. When we didn't immediately respond, a warning shot cracked across our front, sending a small shower of dirt bursting up from the ground.

"We're humans, asshole!" Cajun shouted at the shooter.

A marine emerged from the foliage, dusting the dirt and dead leaves off his battle armor. "Apologies…I've been on sentry duty six hours straight, and we've all been really jumpy ever since Crow's Nest got blown to hell and back…"

Delta Company, as it turned out, had roughly a hundred marines who were able to fight. All of them looked like hammered shit, but they were able to sprint, hold their weapons, and fire them, so they were in perfect health in a soldier's book.

The sentry took us to the captain in charge of the company, and I gave a little start of surprise when we came face to face with none other than Ian McCandlish—my former platoon leader from my early days in the 9th Force Recon. He had been wounded before the Covies fried Reach, and so was able to be sent off-planet before that particular battle took a major turn for the worse.

And this appeared to be where he ended up.

I depolarized my face plate and exchanged a quick nod with him, but kept it at that. There would be time for a more fitting reunion later.

The Master Sergeant exchanged salutes with the Captain, giving McCandlish his name and part of our unit. "Our superior pointed in your direction and said _go_. I could use a sit-rep."

Captain McCandlish took us through the cleft between two large hills and into the town of Voi proper. The residential area was burning, just like the rest of the town. In truth, the only part of Voi that was still standing were the handful of large industrial complexes on top of the hill that formed the eastern edge of the town, right near the docks.

Everything else had been efficiently converted into rubble by the Covenant plasma. Banshees screeched by overhead, locked in an endless duel with our own flyboys. The Brutes' ships were still hanging out over the massive crater to the west—they wouldn't be bothering us.

I could also hear the loud, crackling reports of the Covie AA guns booming on the east side of town. They were going off several times a minute, firing at our hornets. Our hornets were too small to get hit by those hulking monsters, but the Covies didn't have anything else to shoot at.

If our force of naval vessels tried attacking the Artifact in the crater now, they'd be torn to pieces by that AA battery. I mean, I already _knew_ that, but now that I actually saw and heard those guns in action… I wouldn't want to fly anywhere near here until those guns were silent.

"We were stationed several kilometers south of Voi, waiting for the mobilization to finish," Captain McCandlish said to us, ducking under a fallen crossbeam from one of the houses. The sound of gunfire was getting louder. "We were supposed to have an entire bloody regiment attacking this part of the town with us… Then Crow's Nest got blown to smithereens and that bitch Keyes ordered me to attack Voi with less than a hundred fifty men. I've already lost a third of them."

"What's the situation?" the Master Sergeant asked.

"We've got a battalion's-worth of marines hitting the town as we speak," McCandlish reported. "My company is working through the residential sector, Alpha Company is trying to hit the Traxus Heavy Industries facilities further east, and Charlie Company is pinned down in the center of town. We're trying to link up with them."

"Is there a Bravo Company?" Apache inquired.

"There _was,_" McCandlish replied, going into no further details on the matter. No one asked for details, either.

The marine captain picked his way through several more debris piles that had once been homes. We were hot on his heels until we reached what passed for the front lines. In truth, it was several dozen marines hunkered down behind the piles of debris while a cluster of shade turrets rained plasma down on them, keeping them pinned.

"If you and your squad want to help us, Master Sergeant, you can take out those bloody turrets," Captain McCandlish declared pointing right at the cluster of shades. A plasma charge seared through the air right next to his head and actually singed his shoulder, but he paid it no heed.

The Master Sergeant studied our next target for a few moments before giving a single nod. "Consider it done," he said. "Bring all of your men forward, Captain. We're going to need your entire company once those turrets go down."

"My XO is already rounding up my rearguard," the Captain replied, turning to head back the way he came. "Just handle the turrets; we'll do the rest."

"Scar, you're staying here," the Master Sergeant told me. "See if you can drop one or two of the Covies manning those turrets. Apache, keep to the rear—I'll need you in case someone gets hit. Cajun, prime your C-12; we're going to need it. Let's move out!"

The rest of my squad sprinted away, vanishing into the hellscape of smoke, ash, fire, and rubble.

The breeze began to pick up again, and I started to feel stinging pellets of rain. I looked up into the sky. The sky itself had a red hue, and the smoke formed a smothering haze that partially obstructed the sunlight. But the bell-shaped storm over the Artifact had expanded exponentially since the last time I had looked at it from the pelican. I could no longer see its full shape, as its outer reaches now covered Voi, hence the rain.

Thunder clapped overhead, and the rapidly-darkening daylight was still brightened momentarily by flashes of lightning.

I hurried forward to the mounds of rubble which the marines of Delta Company were taking cover behind. I dove behind a pile of furniture and part of a roof.

"Helljumpers?" one of the marines exclaimed, getting the attention of his buddies. They all looked at me in surprise. "Does this mean our reinforcements have arrived?"

"You aren't getting any reinforcements!" I shouted back to the marine, talking loudly to be heard over the thunderous combined din of the storm and the battle. "The mobilization of troops in Tsavo won't be complete for another week! You boys are on your own, here!"

"It was Commander Keyes who ordered us to attack!" another marine yelled over to me. "She's either got this obsession to outshine her father, or she's just plain fucking nuts!"

"We're paying the price for it, whatever it is!" the first marine grumbled.

I went prone and edged out around the side of the mound, focusing my crosshairs on one of the closer shade turrets. All of them were keeping up a constant stream of fire at various parts of Delta Company's position, so there was no target that was easier than the others.

I squeezed off a shot, and one of the turrets fell silent, rotating back to its home position as its jackal operator tumbled out of the seat. I shifted my aim and neutralized another turret before the other shade turrets got wise and started gunning for my position.

I got to my feet and sprinted over to another pile of rubble, relocating even before the storm of plasma started hitting my old spot. I lay still, waiting for a few seconds before edging around the opposite side of this new spot and taking out a third turret. By the time I shot out the operator of a fourth turret, the first two turrets had been re-manned.

I relocated again, sliding through the debris and rubble, sprinting across what had once been streets, past what had once been homes. Blam. Another turret down. Blam. Another turret down.

The Covies kept on pulling their dead from the turrets and hopping in themselves. Every time I took down a turret, it was back up and running again within fifteen seconds.

After relocating for the fourth time, I sniped another jackal shooter. I then shifted my aim, but the turret I had been about to shoot suddenly exploded. I recognized that as the work of Cajun's C-12.

My continuous sniping of the turret's shooters had caused the operators of those heavy guns to keep their fire more or less concentrated in my direction, and not in the direction that the Master Sergeant was leading the rest of my squad.

I spotted Cajun sprinting right past another shade turret, dropping something down next to it as he went by. The Louisianan dove for cover behind a wrecked civilian car as that turret went up in flames.

Half of the turrets swiveled round to start shooting at my squadmates. I ignored them—my squadmates could handle those Covies—and instead focused on the handful of shade turrets and plasma cannons still firing at Delta Company's position.

Marines were beginning to advance slowly, now that the amount of plasma coming our way had been lessened by half. I took out three more turrets over the course of the next two minutes, and Cajun managed to destroy several more.

"_Rockets!_" I could hear Captain McCandlish bellowing. "I want rockets on those bloody turrets right fucking now! Move it, _move it!_"

The handful of marines from Delta Company with rocket launchers hadn't been able to stick so much as a stray hair out of cover without getting blasted into next week, let alone stand up and take the time to properly aim a SPNKr launcher.

With only a few shade turrets still bearing down on them, they were able to break cover and fire their payloads. Rockets soared over our heads and into the shade turretss' position. Another three turrets brewed up in flames, followed quickly by a fourth that fell victim to another brick of Cajun's explosives.

Celt ended up knocking one of the last shade turrets off its anti-grav base plate with a well-aimed grenade.

By now, Captain McCandlish had fully mustered his company. I saw the Englishman jog past my position, a group of marines hot on his heels. He was shouting for everyone to advance, to break cover, to keep moving forward. We had to press the weakness in the Brutes' position before they could re-fortify it.

Within another two minutes, all of the ninety-odd marines that made up Delta Company had joined the Captain in an all-out charge. It wasn't like a bayonet charge of the old days—masses of men just sprinting right into their foe—no, it was much more controlled than that. One group of marines would sprint to cover while another provided covering fire. They would then leapfrog over each other until they reached the Covies' position.

It wasn't like the company had divided in half, though—there were dozens of small groups of marines covering each other as they advanced up the streets towards the Covies' position near the center of town.

We caught up with the rest of my squad a short time later, and finally ended up storming the shade turrets' position not long after that. Captain McCandlish led the assault, once again proving that time-tested method of attacks being more effective when the officer was out in front of his men.

"Nice shooting, Scar," the Master Sergeant hollered over to me when we regrouped.

"There's more where that came from," I muttered as we continued to push onwards towards the center of town.

It was strange fighting these Covenant. There were a couple Hunter pairs that we had to take down…but the rest of the Covies comprised only of Brutes, jackals, and drones. The Elites and grunts were absent. They had been absent from a good part of the Kiev engagement, as well, but I hadn't really picked up on it until now.

Now that I fully noticed the absence of the Elites and grunts…it just didn't feel natural. Covies without their usual cannon fodder.

We kept on pressing on, pushing through the Covie defenses, until we found ourselves avoiding gunfire instead of Covie plasmafire.

"Cease fire! All units, _hold your fire, goddamnit!_" Captain McCandlish howled.

We had finally managed to link up with Charlie Company. McCandlish met with Captain Regina Strome, the CO of the other company, and they quickly hashed out details with each other concerning the rest of the advance. We had captured virtually all of the southern part of Voi. Charlie Company had cleared out the northern area during their march to the town center, and the Covies had not been occupying the western reaches…leaving the eastern part of town.

The Traxus Heavy Industries facility, to be exact. There were many more industrial sites located along the bank of what had once been the artificial lakefront, just behind the docks. It was along this newly-created ridge that the Brutes had set up their AA battery.

We didn't end up having to go very far, though. We started heading east, but were surprised to find that the Covies' defenses were much weaker than what we had come to expect. We soon saw that they were actually pulling back…and this shocked most of us. The Covenant wasn't exactly renowned for its ability to retreat.

Perhaps this was another effect of having Brutes in charge, rather than the hardliner _fight-or-die_ Elites.

I didn't really care why the Covies were retreating. The only thing I really cared about was the fact that their falling back made our job easier…and slightly less bloody.

I don't know what I was really expecting from this battle. As long as a battle ends in our favor, I was the last person who would care how it was fought…but even so, I couldn't help but feel a slight sense of disappointment when the Covie AA emplacements up ahead suddenly blew up.

Alpha Company had somehow managed to push through the Traxus factory without the help of the rest of their battalion. I wouldn't find out until much later that they had only managed to do this because they'd been helped by a small force of Spartans.

While I certainly wouldn't have complained if McCandlish's company had gotten the help of some of those supersoldiers, I think Alpha Company was the one that could have used their assistance the most.

And if Alpha Company had waited for us to arrive at the Traxus facility, the entire assault on the Artifact would have been disastrous. It turned out that Fleet Admiral Hood, who was commanding a small group of naval vessels, had already ordered his force to attack the Artifact.

They had departed from Tanzania not long ago, and were depending on us to get those batteries down by the time they arrived. Had Alpha Company waited for us, those AA emplacements wouldn't have been neutralized in time.

But with the help of Spartans—if the rumors were true, which they probably were—those marines had been able to storm the Brutes' position in the nick of time.

Barely ten seconds after the last AA emplacement went up in flames, the ground started to rumble and shake. McCandlish ordered everyone to hold position.

The deep rumbling—mechanical, manmade rumbling, not the thunder—intensified into the familiar noise of jet engines. I looked up in time to see a cloud of longsword fighters scream by overhead.

Once the smaller fighters had passed by, Voi was suddenly plunged into shadow. A UNSC frigate sailed over the town, steadily advancing on the Artifact behind the cloud of fighters. There were two more frigates flanking the one directly overhead.

Three frigates. I hoped it would be enough.

They passed over Voi right into the gap we had just created in the Brutes' defenses. All of the frigates fired their MAC cannons at the same time, nearly bursting our eardrums with the resounding _BOOM_. Missiles were flying from the fighters as well—everything was no doubt converging on that tetrahedron ship that had been in the center of the pedestal.

Just listening to the explosions, I thought there was no way in hell anything would be able to withstand such a barrage. I don't know if I was right. I don't know if the barrage hurt the Covies, or if it merely annoyed them.

Ultimately, it didn't matter.

There was a brief stretch of silence. The three frigates were still hovering in their firing positions, no doubt waiting for their cannons to recharge. The Brute ships under the storm weren't even paying them any heed.

The ground started to rumble once more. Then things started to get weird.

A straight beam of bright, bluish-white light suddenly snapped into existence, spearing right up into the center of the storm. The lightning began to go crazy, with nearly a dozen flashes every second.

I wasn't able to see what was causing this, though. You'd have to be right at the edge of the cliff where the lakefront had once been to be able to see the Artifact. All we could see was the top of the storm, several of the Covenant ships, and the three UNSC frigates.

The ground shook again as the beam of light pulsed. More light surged upward, and the beam grew to at least three times its original size. The bluish-white light brightened considerably.

The wind picked up, and the rain pelted down even harder.

"What the fuck is going on?" a nearby marine shouted, instinctively holding his helmet onto his head to keep the wind from tearing it away. It was unnecessary for him to do that…but I found myself doing the same thing, so I was in no position to judge.

"Hold position! _Hold position!_" Captain McCandlish kept his marines in line, fighting to curb their growing restlessness.

We could face anything the Covies threw at us. I wouldn't say that we were fearless—many of us were plenty scared—but it was a kind of fear that we were used to. It kept us alert, kept us on our toes. We charged into battle against Covies every day with that kind of fear in the backs of our minds.

But what we were experiencing here was completely and utterly…unknown. We had no idea what was happening, what was _going_ to happen…no idea what we would be facing as a consequence…and that scared the shit out of us.

What was this beam of light? What was causing it? What was it doing?

The beam of light pulsed a third time, and it became more like a thick pillar of blinding white. It hurt to look in its general direction, now.

But it still wasn't done. The ground began to shake continuously, now, and the pillar of white light started to flare up and expand. A shockwave exploded out from the Artifact, striking the three frigates. The fell into shallow nosedives before recovering their altitude.

The shockwave hit Voi next. Most of the half-destroyed buildings collapsed all the way, and many of our men were thrown off their feet. I nearly lost my balance myself, but Celt and I were able to support each other.

I screwed my eyes shut as the blinding white light enveloped Voi. It was like a nuclear device had just gone off right next to us—minus the death and destruction, obviously.

The light continued to burn brighter and the shaking continued to get more and more violent until I was convinced that Earth itself was about to split in half…and then, as if God just snapped his fingers, it all stopped.

The light subsided and the wind died down. The rain continued to fall, though it wasn't nearly as strong as it had been a minute ago.

Celt and I moved apart from each other. I helped a nearby marine back up to his feet before noticing something odd. It was still mid-afternoon…but it looked like twilight. Most of the daylight that had been here a moment ago was suddenly gone.

I looked back up into the sky…and stared right into a black hole.

I know it wasn't actually a black hole. If there was actually a black hole in the sky…well…never mind.

It was a huge ball of…something. The fringes glowed a deep purple, but the center of the mass was pitch black. It almost seemed to absorb the light. When I looked straight at it for too long, my head began to ache, forcing me to look away.

When I saw the Brutes' ships flying straight into the darkness, I saw that it was actually some kind of portal. A massive, spherical, light-sucking portal. The fourteen monoliths that had formed the petals of the Artifact's flower-like shape were now standing erect. Their tips glowed purple as well, and thin trails of violet energy streamed from them into the Portal.

All that was left now was the light pattering of rain and the low, empty breath of the wind. Everything else had gone dead quiet.

"What…the…fuck…?" Cajun murmured, shielding his eyes as he tried to stare at the Portal overhead. He was unable to do so for very long, like me.

"Commander Angiers!" the Master Sergeant was shouting into his helmet mic. "Commander Angiers, this is Archangel-One-Actual; what the hell just happened?"

The COM crackled and buzzed for several seconds before we got a response from the Commander. "_Stand by, Master Sergeant; we're trying to work that out for ourselves!_"

Almost the moment the last of the Covenant ships ducked into the Portal, there was a flash of light in the distance to the northwest. One of Delta Company's platoon leaders spotted it and pointed it out, prompting the rest of us to turn and see what was going on.

It was a slipspace rupture.

From the rupture, a Covenant battlecruiser emerged. But it was obvious right from the get-go that something was terribly wrong with the cruiser. It was listing heavily, and it was oddly…discolored. Instead of the usual shiny silvery purple that was customary of Covenant vessels, it was covered in a filthy yellowish-gray substance.

After it emerged, it rumbled through the sky towards the Artifact. It was clear that there was no one piloting the thing; it was heading straight into the ground.

Before it reached the Artifact, however, it curved around and glided almost gracefully over the former lakefront and crashed right into eastern Voi. There was another giant explosion. Blue-white flames gouted up high into the air after the initial burst of light, and the ground trembled from the impact—not as hard as it had when the Artifact created that Portal-thing, but still hard enough to be noticed.

"What…uh…what do we do now, sir?" a marine corporal asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over us.

"We'll hold our position until further-" Captain McCandlish started to say before gunfire suddenly broke out further to the east. Alpha Company seemed to have found something to shoot at over near the crashed ship.

I could see muzzle flashes in the darkness, as well as shadowy figures leaping from rooftop to rooftop, but I couldn't really see anything clearly.

The COM exploded with screams and shouts from the marines in that part of the city. New contacts. Unknown hostiles, most of them said.

"_They are not Covenant! I repeat; they are _not_ Cov-_" an officer was reporting before his transmission was cut off with a scream.

"Orders, Captain!" the Master Sergeant shouted over to McCandlish, who was looking extremely unnerved at this new turn of events. "Should we go and assist?"

"Affirmative!" Captain McCandlish nodded, loading his weapon. "On your feet, lads! We're moving out!"

We didn't even get that far. I was gazing east through my sniper rifle scope to see if I could get a good look at whatever was attacking Alpha Company. Unfortunately, it worked, and I was able to see what we were up against.

My stomach heaved.

I scrabbled desperately to get my helmet off, ripping it free right before I vomited all over my boots. My heart rate shot through the roof and my knees caved in. My hands and legs began to tremble uncontrollably as a deep, primal fear ate its way into my mind.

Images of flailing, reanimated corpses flashed through my mind. Deformed, desecrated bodies... My friend Dempsey...

_No_…_not them_…


	94. VII Chapter 94: Dread Intrusion

Chapter Ninety-Four: Dread Intrusion

**November 17, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

_No_… _Not them_…

That was when I heard their wails and screeches, and my mind-numbing fear turned into adrenaline, zapping me full of an almost inhuman energy burst. I spat out the vomit residue still in my mouth, pulled my helmet back on, and sprang back up to my feet.

"We need to leave!" I heard myself screaming almost incomprehensibly. "We gotta get the fuck outta here! They're coming! Oh, God, they're coming!"

"Snap the fuck out of it, Scar!" Cajun slapped me on the upside of my head.

I pushed him away and stumbled toward Captain McCandlish, who was still prepping his men. Celt grabbed my arm and held me back before I could go very far, though. "Mother o' God, Scar, will ye calm the feck down an'-"

"It's the Flood, it's the fucking Flood!" I screamed right into his face. "They're here! They were on that ship that crashed, and they're here, and they're coming right for us!"

Celt was stunned into silence, at first. Then he, too, started to hear the screams of the rapidly approaching Flood. It sounded downright unnatural to most people, but to Celt, who had experienced and lived through the horrors of the parasite of Halo…it sounded like a nightmare.

"Oh, shite…oh, shite, shite, _shite!_ Sarge, we need to be gettin' the feck outta here-"

I could hear Celt screaming something along the same lines as me, but I'd already stopped listening. "Captain McCandlish! Captain McCandlish!" I shouted over to my old platoon leader. "Pull your men back! We need to get the hell outta this city!"

"We need to assist Alpha Company in-" the Captain started to say, but I cut him off.

"They're already dead, Captain!" I was practically foaming at the mouth, at this point. "You have no fucking idea what we're about to be up against! No fucking idea! But I do… I've fought these creatures before. If you go east, all of you will die. But if you cut our losses and get the hell out of Voi right fucking now, then your men might not be on the KIA list tomorrow!"

Captain McCandlish still looked hesitant, but when he finally caught a glimpse of the first wave of those small, balloon-like Flood crawler-things, he made his mind up fast. "Fall back! All units, fall back!" he thundered, cupping a hand to his mouth so that he could be heard by everyone.

After a brief exchange with the Englishman over the COM, Charlie Company's commander, Captain Strome, issued an identical order to her own marines.

Ordering the marines to fall back early on saved many of their lives…but it was too late to save them all. We had a chance to get out of Voi, but I already knew that not all of us were going to make it, not after fighting the Flood in the past and seeing what they were capable of.

The wave of infection forms skittered ever closer. Marines began to open fire, hosing those crawlers with lead. Whenever one infection form was stuck, it exploded. That explosion subsequently caused every other infection form surrounding it to blow up, as well.

But even with this advantage, it was impossible to stop the Flood horde's momentum, or even slow it down noticeably. Wherever we tore a gap in the Flood's advance, it was quickly filled by dozens more of the crawlers.

"Don't let the little ones touch you!" I bellowed at the top of my lungs. "If they make contact with your body, you have less than three seconds to get them off before _that_ happens!" I pointed out towards the wave of infection forms, which had reached some of Charlie Company's dead.

We hadn't had any time to move any of our dead from this battle, so they were all just lying all over the city…waiting to get snapped up.

Infection forms lighted atop many of the corpses and burrowed inside. The corpses jereked and convulsed, ugly, misshapen growths bursting out along the lengths of their bodies. Their skin melted into a gray-yellow substance. Finally, the thick, ropy tentacle arm burst from their shoulders, and the crawlers emerged partially from the corpses' chests.

And it wasn't just our dead that the Flood took—they also took the corpses of the Brutes we had killed. They seemed to ignore the dead Hunters, jackals, and drones…but the Brutes were infected just like we were.

A new force of Flood combat forms now sprinted towards us. Not all of them had weapons, luckily, but there were still a few of them that did. Plasmafire and lead screamed through our ranks once more, taking down several of our men.

More marines helped their wounded back up and continued to carry them south down the way we had come.

As for me, I slipped my sniper rifle over my shoulder and pulled an M90 shotgun off of a nearby corpse, offering the dead woman a silent _thank-you_ for her weapon. Long-ranged weapons weren't going to be of much use against this enemy. The best way to fight them—well, aside from nuking the entire African landmass—was with powerful, close-quarters weapons.

Even as I fell back with everyone else, pretty much running backwards down those ruined streets, I couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in my gut, no matter how distracted I was.

On Halo, the Flood had been contained in that one building. Once it was breached, they started to spread all over that ringworld like a fucking wildfire. And now they were here, on Earth. How long would it be before they infected all of Africa? How long until they spread into Europe and Asia? How long until the Flood spores made their way to the Americas?

If we didn't deal with this infestation here and now, Earth's civilian population wouldn't have a prayer. The Flood would finally finish what the Covenant had started. Humanity would pass into memory, leaving behind only our ruins.

We were lucky that virtually none of Voi's buildings in this part of town were still standing, otherwise the combat forms could have clambered up top and opened fire on us from above. They could have jumped down right into the middle of our formation, and then we'd _really_ be up shit creek.

I heard a man scream not too far away, accompanied by the sickening crunches of an infection form transforming a human body. Several more marines went down, overcome by the wave of infection forms.

I saw some of them go down as the infection forms leaped onto them, but I had to look away when their bodies started to transform. I just couldn't stomach watching that, not after being forced to watch my oldest friend get desecrated right in front of me in the exact same way.

Marines swore and cursed under their breath, holding down their dinners as they were forced to turn their weapons on their former comrades.

McCandlish and Strome drove their marines even harder, until many of them had ceased fire altogether and were simply running for their lives. Several men with flamethrowers were brought up from behind, and they managed to drive a good portion of the infection forms back, buying us a few precious minutes. They kept up with the rest of the companies, covering our rear.

Other marines had to take care of the combat forms in order to protect the men with the flamethrowers, though. This was all boiling down into one huge team effort.

The wounded were pushed on ahead and sent to the front of the advance. This was to ensure that we didn't move any faster than the slowest members of our force, which prevented anyone from being left behind.

I couldn't think of a worse fate than being left behind in this hellhole…

"Watch each others' backs, lads!" Captain McCandlish kept on shouting. "If one of the little wankers gets onto the man next to you, help him get it off!"

The marines had already been doing this ever since we had started retreating from the center of town. We took losses during the retreat, but we would have taken so many more had it not been the marines watching each others' backs.

Whenever an infection form latched onto one of McCandlish or Strome's men, another marine would always be there to rip it off before it started fuckifying its would-be victim. This didn't stop the losses from increasing, but it definitely curbed them.

Despite all of our strategies, and despite all of our best efforts, though, the Flood was closing in. We were beginning to get hit on our flanks as well as our rear. It would only be a couple minutes until the horde managed to completely surround us.

Our time was running out. If the Flood surrounded us, the only ones who would make it out of Voi were the fastest runners…and I was still healing up from the beating I'd taken in Kiev.

I kept level with one of the flamethrower marines, keeping his flanks clear. Celt was with me, and Cajun as well. I emptied every shot left in that M90 I'd picked up into charging combat forms until I was forced to discard the shotgun and pull out my magnum.

The Flood, as it turned out, had another card up its sleeve. I could tell that these Flood were different from the creatures I'd fought on Halo. They were more…intelligent, almost. More coordinated. They functioned more like a single organism, as opposed to dozens of feral beasts.

And they had _changed,_ too. I mean, physically _changed_. There were still the infection forms and the combat forms that I was familiar with…but there were other Flood forms joining the fray, now, Flood forms that didn't seem to be controlled by the crawlers.

There were two kinds of these new forms that I could easily see—small, insect-like Flood creatures skulking between the buildings on long, spindly legs, and other bulbous forms that attached themselves to walls and buildings.

These forms would fasten themselves to a wall, open their mouths, and a large, spike-covered protrusion would emerge, almost like an oversized tongue. The spikes glowed a soft yellow-green in the darkness. The Flood form would then fire all of the spikes on its 'tongue', and then they would quickly regenerate, allowing the form to keep up an almost constant stream of fire.

The odd thing about these forms is that they weren't corpses being puppeted about by infection forms; they seemed to be composed entirely of the gray-yellow Flood sludge.

More marines went down, spikes protruding from their legs, their stomachs, their chests, their necks… Many of them were lost to the infection forms.

At least I finally found a use for my sniper rifle. I fell back a few paces and took aim at one of those projectile-firing Flood forms. I fired my sniper rifle and struck the Flood form. I don't think I killed it, but I did maim its spiker-tongue and render it unable to keep up its fire, so it was still a good hit.

I shifted my aim and gave another ranged form a similar treatment.

All Hell broke loose when I took aim at a third ranged form, however. I hadn't taken very much time to aim, and rushing a sniper shot was never a good idea. My shot grazed the Flood form on the wall, and it curled up tight into a ball, dropping straight off of the wall it had been on.

But then it started to change, for lack of a better description. Growths began to burst from its sludgy flesh. I watched as it transformed into a monstrous creature at least seven or eight feet tall. It had a thin torso, but its arms and legs…they were like fucking tree trunks. If a person got hit by one of those…it would be game over, most likely.

The monster gave a low, rumbling growl as it bounded towards us. Marines started shouting frantically and shifting their fire onto that monster. I think we really didn't do anything more than annoy the thing…it started sprinting towards us, bashing its smaller brethren out of the way.

"Clear out!" Celt shouted. "Get the feck outta its way!"

We kept up our fire on the Flood monster, even as it slammed right into us. Celt and I ducked as it brought its whip-like tentacle arm slicing through the air where we had been standing a moment ago.

It took another lumbering step forward, bringing its arms up high, intending to crush us under its immense strength and weight, when an explosion suddenly blossomed right in the center of its chest, driving it back several paces.

Cajun reloaded his grenade launcher and fired another round, driving the tank form back even further.

What happened next was a blur. Everything happened so fast… I only remember small parts of it when I try to think about it. And I never try to think about it…

Cajun fell to a knee, yellow spikes protruding from his abdomen and leg. He had been hit by one of those Flood ranged forms just as he was about to fire his weapon. The tank form, sensing my squadmate's weakness, bounded forward like it had been fired from a slingshot.

Its whip-like arm struck Cajun full in the chest and sent the Louisianan flying into the mass of infection forms.

It then turned its attention back to Celt and me, but this was another part that I remember well: Cajun, absolutely covered in those Flood crawler-things, rising out of the mess like fucking Jesus Christ on the third day, a brick of C-12 explosives in each hand. He waded through the mess of infection forms, completely ignoring the ones skittering over his armor, and leaped onto the huge tank form just before it could attack us.

The Louisianan started to convulse as one of the infection forms found purchase and started to transform him into a combat form. He tore something off of his neck and hurled it over to Celt and me. He looked at us for a full second, not moving, not saying a thing even as his body was ravaged by the infection…then he primed both of his C-12 bricks and shoved them right into the tank form's torso.

I looked away right before the world in front of me exploded. There was a blinding flash of light, followed by a wave of intense heat…then the normal din of the firefight returned.

My ears were still ringing as I helped Celt up to his feet. The Irishman bent down and picked up the thing Cajun had thrown at us right before the explosion—his dogtags.

It felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. I felt myself helping Celt up, I felt my legs pumping as we sprinted to rejoin the marines retreating down the street…but I was on some kind of autopilot. All I could really see was Cajun vanishing in an explosion of light over and over again…

And the horrible part was that I didn't even have time to dwell on it. All I could do was gape with shock at what had happened, but I couldn't do anything deeper than that.

I didn't really come back to full awareness until the sky started lighting up with more slipspace ruptures. Nearly a dozen Covenant vessels emerged from the ruptures, gliding right over Voi and casting the town into darkness from their shadows. One of them was an assault carrier, and all the rest were smaller battlecruisers.

Before I could have any kind of reaction whatsoever to these new arrivals, my COM unit built into my helmet crackled, and a deep, baritone voice issued forth, saying, "_Hail humans, and take heed! This is the carrier _Shadow of Intent. _Clear this sector, while _we_ deal with the Flood_."

I looked at the Covie ships with new eyes. It would appear that our absent alien friends had arrived at last. Even the surging Flood halted momentarily, watching the Elite fleet take up a position over the town. I could see drop pods falling from the assault carrier, landing somewhere near the Traxus facility, where the Flood-infested cruiser had gone down.

Phantoms began to descend from one of the battlecruisers, landing not far to the south of our current position, outside of Voi. This gave us all a new surge of energy, of motivation to reach the edge of town. Help was waiting for us.

With the Flood temporarily distracted by the arrival of the Elites, we bought ourselves another precious handful of minutes. This extra time turned out to be crucial—the Flood were literally nipping at our heels by the time we reached the impromptu defenses set up by the Elites.

Barriers made of purple-tinged metal, and others composed of pure energy, had been hastily erected, along with a pair of assault towers, four shade turrets, and a wraith tank. Several Elites planted plasma cannons into the ground and stepped aside, allow green-armored Grunts to man them.

I vaulted over one of the purple alloy barriers and rested for a moment against it, catching my breath. After a few more seconds, I poked my head over the barrier and helped another marine over. I then aimed my magnum, shooting at the combat forms. There had been a lot of dead left over in Voi from the earlier battle—both Human and Covenant—and the infection forms had taken advantage of this.

I lost count of how many former comrades whose bodies I destroyed. I destroyed a lot of Brute corpses, as well, but…well, I didn't really care as much about killing them as I did when it was a former human in my crosshairs.

"Step aside, Imp," a squeaky, high-pitched voice spoke from behind.

I turned around and came face-to-face with a pair of Grunts bearing fuel-rod guns. It was the first time I'd ever heard one speak English.

I suppressed my initial urge to kill them, which wasn't easy. Apparently it takes thirty days of completing a certain task to make it a habit; when you perform a habit for thirty years, it just becomes part of you, putting it quite simply. Killing Grunts was part of who I was…and now I had to suppress that. It wasn't easy.

I stepped back from the barrier and allowed the two Grunts to waddle forward and fire their heavy weapons.

The plasma cannons and shade turrets all opened fire, tearing great swathes through the tide of flood. The phantoms rained plasma and explosives down from above, as well, further adding to the carnage.

Most of our men had gotten over the barriers before the Covies—though I guess they weren't really Covies, anymore—opened fire. There were a few stragglers who had to dodge a few plasma charges, but they all made it, as well. Charlie and Delta Companies would survive to fight another day.

The sheer firepower of the combined Human and Covenant Separatist forces was enough to hold the Flood at bay. Wave after wave of infection forms were shredded by our plasma and lead. Whenever another hulking monster of a tank form arose and tried to charge us, the wraith tank would blow it to pieces.

Elite sharpshooters felled the combat forms by popping their controlling crawlers with precise shots, and Grunts with heavy weapons would destroy the bodies. The sharpshooters also concentrated on making sure the Flood ranged forms didn't remain ranged forms for long.

The true masters of this battle, however, were the Hunters. There were two Hunter pairs with the detachment of Separatists, and the Elites sent them forward once the onslaught of Flood began to lessen.

Infection forms crawled all over the Hunters, but the hulking Covie behemoths seemed to be immune—none of them were turned into undead abominations. They smashed crawlers and combat forms with their mighty armored limbs.

The fight climaxed when one of the Hunters engaged a tank form. The tank form attacked the Covie with its whip-like tentacle arm, but the Hunter caught the blow on its shield. It shoved the tank form back and blasted its whip-arm off with its shoulder-mounted fuel-rod cannon.

With a thunderous war cry, the Hunter then proceeded to gut the tank form by shoving its arm-shield right into the tank form's equivalent of a chest. This seemed to be enough to kill the Flood creature, because it did not get back up.

The four Hunters roared their victory to the sky as the remaining Flood started to skitter back north.

I had to admit that there was something truly exhilarating about fighting with Covies on your side. I mean, teaming up with two Elites in a swamp was one thing, but fighting with an actual Covenant military detachment at your side… You spend your entire military career fighting an enemy with superior power and technology; you become used to having to make ends meet with your own equipment in order to survive. But when you suddenly find that same power and might fighting _alongside_ you…

It just felt great.

As the fire died down, a group of pelican dropships descended to our position along with the phantoms, ready to extract us. Celt and I stuck together and found the rest of the squad—all _two_ of them—in Captain Rousseau's bird. Our pelican was packed to the breaking point with marines by the time we took off, leaving Voi behind for good.

I looked at the rest of the squad, and my heart quickly sank to the region of my knees now that I finally had the time to process everything that had happened. We were more of a fireteam than a squad, now.

"Where the hell is Cajun?" the Master Sergeant asked, speaking somewhat loudly to be heard over the numerous other conversations that had sprung up between the other marines in this bird. "He went onto another bird, didn't he? If he gets lost in this mess and I can't find him, then I swear I'll-"

The Master Sergeant's voice trailed off when Celt wordlessly held out Cajun's dogtags to him. My squad leader took the tags and stared at them silently. Apache closed his eyes and rested his head against the bulkhead. The Master Sergeant slowly removed his helmet and hung the dogtags around his neck, along with his own and those of Pyro and Virgin. He began to murmur under his breath in Hebrew.

After all this reckless shitfuck of a battle had cost us, I hoped to all Christ that Commander Keyes knew what she was doing.

How many more of our dogtags would hang from the Master Sergeant's neck by the time this was over?

I didn't know the answer to my question, and that voice in my head didn't seem to, either. I held onto one of the troop bay's bulkheads and stared down at Voi, watching as the Elite ships began burning the town off the map. The Flood would be contained...but the cost hadn't been a low one.


	95. VII Chapter 95: Follow Our Brothers

Chapter Ninety-Five: Follow Our Brothers

**November 22, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

Five days.

It had been five days since the Clusterfuck of Voi—I wasn't even calling it a battle, because too much shit had gone wrong for me to consider it anything but a clusterfuck.

Enough men had been mustered from the scattered remnants of our forces in the jungle to form a solid, somewhat over-sized regiment.

The three remaining companies of the 77th Regiment had been so badly mauled that the regiment no longer really existed. As such, the remnants of the 77th had been enveloped into the ad hoc force that had been already put together from the myriad forces that had survived the glassing of Mombasa. I think there even may be some New Mombasa police officers fighting alongside our own guys, if some of the rumors I'd heard were true.

Due to the shortage of officers, General Eckhart had brevetted McCandlish to a light colonel and put him in charge of one of the battalions. Luckily, there were still enough officers to keep the command structure at the company levels intact. A few of the more experienced sergeants were made into platoon leaders to replace promoted or dead lieutenants, but that wasn't really a big deal—it happened all the time.

If we'd waited just five measly days for the rest of our forces to mobilize, we could've taken Voi without all those casualties. And not even that; had we waited for reinforcements instead of blundering blindly into the town, we wouldn't have been smack-dab in the middle of Voi when the Flood came a-calling.

_And then you'd have four living squadmates instead of three_.

I hadn't spoken a word for two straight days after the Battle of Voi ended. Cajun's death had struck a bit of a nerve with me. Nothing would ever feel as numbing as Devereux and Dempsey dying within a day of each other…but losing Cajun was still pretty hard.

I'd have thought he, of all people, would live to see the end of this whole thing. He just…I mean, he was fucking indestructible. Nothing could touch him! And then to end up buying a plot during a fight which could have easily been avoided…

I lost count of how many times I'd cursed Commander Miranda Keyes' name.

I forced myself to stop dwelling on such thoughts. I'd drive myself out of my mind if I kept dwelling on the many ways the Battle of Voi could have been avoided.

_Yes,_ the Battle of Voi could have been avoided, and _yes,_ all those lives could have been saved…but the battle had happened, and those lives had been lost. It was in the past, and nothing could change it. All I could do was suck it the hell up and move on.

I just didn't know how much more I'd be able to take. Almost all my comrades from the old days were dead, and now my _current_ comrades were joining them, one by one. I just wanted this war to end…that, or I wanted _me_ to end. I'd gladly take either option, right now.

Today was the 22nd of November. The last of General Eckhart's ad hoc regiment would be brought aboard the ships, today, as per the contingency plan.

I had been living on the UNSC _Aegis Fate_ ever since the Battle of Voi ended. Once we evacuated from the town, the Elites formed up their fleet and glassed it, as well as the surrounding areas. They were taking no chances with the Flood. Nothing short of the complete obliteration that glassing brings would have sufficed in terms of containing them. They had to be blasted off the face of the Earth.

It would be a long time before life would return to this part of the planet…but, unlike our casualties taken in the Battle of Voi, this destruction was a necessary evil. Kenya had to burn for the rest of the world to survive. The only other real alternative would have been to nuke the living shit out of this area. In a way, glassing had been better and more convenient; we wouldn't have to deal with cleaning up radiation poisoning later on.

I hadn't been of high enough rank or importance to attend the subsequent war council between the UNSC and Elite commanders, but Commander Angiers had been able to go, and he'd managed to take the Master Sergeant with him. It had taken place aboard the _Shadow of Intent_—the assault carrier and flagship of this small Separatist fleet. The Master Chief himself had been there, along with Fleet Admiral Hood, the Bitch, General Eckhart, and several of the Elites' higher-ranking personnel.

The Master Sergeant, upon returning to the _Aegis Fate,_ had told us that plans were being made to pursue the Brutes through the Portal. Apparently, they were being led by a figure known us as the 'Prophet of Truth'; one of the Covenant's three supreme rulers. I don't know where the other two were—dead, I would assume—but this one was the one who was causing us so much trouble.

Interesting note; the Master Sergeant had also mentioned something about the Prophets ordering the extermination of the Elites, for whatever reason. This would have happened around a month ago, when I was stuck freezing my ass off in that house of mine. The whole Covenant civil war was a result of this attempted genocide against the Elites.

I tried to ignore the irony; tried, and failed.

I really wanted to find an Elite and ask it how it felt to be the target of genocide…but, regrettably, there were no former Covies stationed on the UNSC vessels. I'd simply have to savor the thought.

But animosity with the Elites set aside for the moment, I slowly started to realize something. A new thought occurred to me, something that had never even crossed my mind before in my thirty years of fighting. With the Elites and their consorts suddenly fighting alongside us…maybe our extinction wasn't quite as inevitable as I'd once thought.

I'll be honest; none of us ever truly believed we'd win the war. And after losing Reach, none of us believed Humanity would survive the conflict. Once the Covies had arrived on Earth, that had pretty much been the final nail in the coffin. We'd give the Covies as big of a bloody nose as we could before getting slaughtered.

Extinction was a certainty. The key to fighting in this battle was learning to ignore that fact and take it one day at a time. Don't think about what the Covies would do in a week; think about what they'd do in five minutes.

But with the Elites fighting for us…maybe, just _maybe_ there was a small chance for Humanity to survive. If we could destroy that force that went through the Portal, we'd cripple the Covies' central leadership, and the Elites wouldn't be around to stabilize it. The Covenant Empire would probably splinter and collapse.

It didn't feel right. It felt unnatural, out of place, and…I can't even really describe it, to be honest. I'd lie in my bunk for hours between meals and try to label the feeling with words, but I'd always come up empty.

Does hope always feel so strange?

It wasn't a strong light of hope, either. More like a weak, flickering candle flame, about to go out any second. This was because there had been more that the Master Sergeant told us—something that the higher-ups had decided to keep quiet from the rank and file.

That Flood-infested cruiser that had crashed into Voi? That was nothing. A drone in a beehive. The _real_ Flood army was on its way here right now…and they were commandeering virtually an entire moon. High Charity, the capital of the Covenant Empire, was a small, moon-sized planetoid. Recently, according to the Elites, it had fallen to the Flood.

And now they were coming here.

A UNSC AI had somehow left a message in that crashed cruiser that Sierra-117 was able to recover, and it spoke of a 'solution to the Flood' lying beyond the Portal. With little other choice, the brass had quickly decided to mobilize the entire regiment of forces in the area and send them into the Portal as soon as possible.

As soon as possible meant _today,_ five days later, when the last of our forces were pulled from the jungles. We would be heading into the Portal anytime, now-

Right on cue, the lights on the ship quickly switched to a dull red, denoting alert status two, which was basically one level below a call to battle stations. It would have the entire crew wound up and ready to spring at a moment's notice. "_Attention all hands,_" the voice of Commander Friedrich Jaeger, the skipper of the _Aegis Fate,_ issued from the shipwide COM. "_We will be passing through the Portal momentarily. Make sure you're ready for anything and everything, boys! This is where it all ends!_"

I left the barracks and retrieved my armor and weapons from the nearest armory and proceeded straight to the frigate's hangar bay. Marines were lounging around the space. Some slept on top of tanks or in warthogs, others sat in circles with playing cards, a couple of individuals were strumming instruments to pass the time. One man was even breakdancing while a comrade blared music from a warthog's speakers.

I have no idea how they were able to keep their spirits so high after all that had just happened. I envied them for this.

The only ones who were hard at work were the naval technicians—constantly scurrying from one end of the bay to the other, making sure all the vehicles and aircraft were in working order. There would always be something to keep them busy.

My squadmates were lying awake inside Whiskey-142, Captain Rousseau's pelican. I joined them without a word. None of us were speaking quite as much, anymore, with Cajun's loss. Losing Virgin and Pyro had been hard, but losing Cajun was even more noticeable. His presence, his laugh, his profanity…gone and silenced forever.

After two minutes or so, I felt the floor tremor slightly as the _Aegis Fate_ fired her engines and started moving forward. We had been holding position over the semi-molten wasteland that had once been the Tsavo region, waiting for the rest of our forces to board the small battlegroup of UNSC vessels present, but now we were finally moving forward.

I was grateful for this. I have a tendency to get lost in my own thoughts when I have nothing to do, so these past five days had been pure torture. But now that we were actually _doing_ something…

Not long afterwards, the deck began to tremble once again. The entire frigate groaned and the ambient lighting in the hangar bay seemed to brighten. The familiar rushing sound of a slipspace jump enveloped the ship, coming from every direction.

But then things really went off the deep end. Normally that rushing noise stopped once the rupture closed and the ship entered the slipstream, but this time it didn't stop. Quite the contrary; it started to intensify until it became an almost ear-splitting screech.

As this happened, the music stopped and the sleeping marines were roused. As the rushing sound intensified…I can't even begin to describe what happened. The ambient lighting continued to brighten until the inside of the hangar bay was like the insides of an incandescent light bulb.

A pressure began to squeeze first at my head, and then at the rest of me. I could hear nothing but the shrill screech of the slipspace rupture outside the ship and the rapid _ba-boom ba-boom_ of my own heartbeat. My eyes felt like they were going to be popped out of my head, and I found it hard to breathe.

For some reason, I felt like I was moving in slow motion. It took an immense amount of willpower to make myself move, and when I did, it felt so sluggish. It almost seemed like space itself was being bent, or warped. The lights set into the ceiling of the hangar bay, for example, were beginning to look like blurred lines of illumination rather than spots.

The shapes of vehicles, ships, and of the people in the hangar bay were likewise distorted. It was almost like one of those pictures where a photographer pointed their camera straight up at a night sky and left the aperture open for several hours. The resulting image would depict the movement of the sky in those few hours, all in the same image—the stars, instead of being normal points of light, would appear as blurred streaks.

That was what everything looked like right now—blurred, streaked versions of their normal selves. With every passing second, the distortion increased, the screech intensified, the light continued to brighten, and the pressure grew stronger.

I clasped my head and squeezed my eyes shut, my mouth open in a silent scream. I could hear the voices of others, as well, but they were incomprehensible. Like someone had recorded everyone's voices, dropped the pitch, and then slowed it down.

The light brightened and the distortion escalated until all I could see was bright white and yellow smudges…and then, like some flipped a cosmic switch, the screech went away. The light dispersed and the hangar bay came back into focus.

I nearly collapsed from the ensuing dizziness. Many of the marines and naval personnel doubled over and vomited all over the floor, and many others _did_ fall to the ground, groaning and holding their heads as the dizziness subsided.

At least the dizziness went away quickly. Within a few seconds, I was moving around normally once more.

"Christ..." Celt shook his head several times, picking himself up off the floor. "What the hell was that all about, eh?"

"This can't be right…" Apache smacked the side of his helmet several times, shaking his head as he did so. "Check your clocks."

I looked at my date/time stamp in the corner of my HUD. It was 0752 hours, only three minutes since we'd entered the Portal. Then my eyes slid over to the date, and I nearly did a double-take. It read 521204.

_December 4__th__, 2552_.

That couldn't be right…

But Celt and the Master Sergeant all had the exact same date and time as Apache and me. Somehow, in the span of three to five minutes, we'd skipped nearly two weeks.

"_Shite_…" Celt murmured as the realization of our little jump began to hit him. "Ye realize that Earth could be a fecking Flood hive, right now? If it's been two bloody weeks, there's no tellin' what may've-"

"The Flood knows of a threat that lies beyond the Portal, as well," the Master Sergeant replied, cutting off the Irishman. "When we found the recording of that AI on the crashed cruiser telling us to seek out the solution beyond the Portal, that AI knew to tell us that because _she_ knew what the Flood knew."

"What, you're saying the Flood'll just ignore Earth and gun straight for the Portal?" I asked. That didn't make much sense to me, but there were still many things I did not know.

"It's a possibility," the Master Sergeant nodded. "Considering what's at stake, here, I'd bet the Flood hive mind would want to first neutralize the threat on the other side of the Portal. Once that's done, the Flood are free to come back and wreak havoc at their leisure. Granted, it's only a possibility, but I'm willing to hope that that is what has already happened. If not…then we've already lost, and whether we win or lose beyond the Portal will not matter."

We weren't able to speak anymore, because we were suddenly interrupted by the flashing red lights once again, accompanied now by the ship-wide alarm. Commander Jaeger's voice issued forth from the COM once more. "_General quarters, general quarters!_" the skipper was shouting. "_All hands to battle stations!_"

"Battle stations?" Apache voiced our collective confusion. "Why issue general quarters in the slipstream?"

Captain Rousseau heard the question as he clambered into his bird, rushing past us. "We're not in Slipspace, anymore, that's why! We got dumped back into normal space once all that crazy shit stopped happening, and the Brutes were waiting for us!"

"So those three minutes…we made the entire slipspace jump in those three minutes?" I asked.

"Yeah, but it wasn't three minutes!" the pilot hollered back from the cockpit as he began to power up his bird. "And the techs told me that they heard from one of the officers that we aren't even in the fucking Milky Way, anymore! Go figure!"

Somehow, I think that actually made a lot of sense. The Portal had been activated by technology that was much more sophisticated than either the Covenant's or our own—it was possible, I hypothesized, that it had been built by the same civilization that had built those giant ringworlds. Naturally, a Slipspace portal of that caliber would have a lot more bang for its buck…but if it was throwing us all the way out of our galaxy, I would think a jump of that distance would take a lot longer than two weeks. It would probably take several months, or even years.

I had no way of knowing, other than making uneducated guesses. But if we'd just made a jump of that distance in only two weeks…I could only imagine how fast the Portal had accelerated us through the slipstream. That disturbing mess of sensory hell that had ensued after the jump must have been the effects of such a rapid acceleration.

A voice issued orders over the hanger bay loudspeakers for all marines and pilots to report to their ships. Most of us were already in our designated birds, but those of us who were not hurried to get there. No one wanted to miss the show.

There was a company of marines aboard the _Aegis Fate_—a full eighth or so of our slapdash regiment composed of the remnants of the forces that had fought in Mombasa. There were several other UNSC frigates and a single marathon-class cruiser that had arrived in Kenya to reinforce the _Aegis Fate, Forward Unto Dawn, _and the _Saint Elmo's Fire_—the three frigates that Admiral Hood had commanded during the second stage of the assault on the Artifact. They had all accompanied us through the Portal.

The rest of our ad hoc regiment of marines was divided among those other vessels.

After another three or four minutes, Captain Rousseau sealed our pelican's rear hatch. My armor and that of my squadmates would be able to withstand the vacuum of space, but there were half a dozen or so regulars in the pelican with us who wouldn't be quite as lucky, so we made sure we were airtight.

Captain Rousseau carefully guided the pelican through the hangar and into a set of docking clamps. The dropship trembled slightly as the clamps took hold. I watched through the small viewports built into the bulkheads as the clamps lowered us into one of the launch cavities—small, aircraft-sized airlocks where ships were lowered from the hangar bay proper right before launch.

After we were lowered, the hangar bay floor sealed itself once more, leaving us in a dark, airtight box. Once the top of the cavity was sealed, however, the atmosphere in the space was cycled out, allowing the outer door to open below us.

I could see outer space below us, laid out like a cosmic rug. After a couple seconds, the pelican gave a lurch and the docking clamps were released, flinging us down and out of the _Aegis Fate_. The frigate continued to glide past us from above. In that instant, I was able to see the Elite fleet arrayed above us, as well as the rest of our own forces—all heading towards another fleet of Covenant ships.

The Brutes' fleet was at least three times a large. I personally didn't like those odds…but if it came down to a fight between a group of Elites and a group of Brutes, I'd bet on the Elites.

And then I looked down. Below us was, for lack of a better way of putting it, an artificial world. Its composition and appearance was remarkably similar to Halo—it wasn't shaped like a ring, but it had the same general layout. A dark, metallic alloy exterior; the concave surface covered with life. Blue oceans, white wisps of cloud cover, deserts, forests, grasslands, mountains...

The only real difference between this construct and Halo was, again, its shape. While Halo had been shaped like a ring, this construct was shaped like an eight-spoked wheel, or a flower with eight long petals. Or even like an octopus with all of its arms outstretched. Instead of being flat, however, the construct was concave—all of the arms curved upwards from the central core.

And in the very center of the construct was a giant, circular hole. It wasn't an empty space, however—it was filled with what looked like reddish-yellow, dusty clouds. And in the very center of _that_ was a dark ball; a small planet, or a moon, by the looks of it.

And the construct was _big_. Bigger, even, than Halo. Halo had a diameter of ten thousand kilometers, which was only slightly smaller than that of Earth. Halo was almost big enough to fit around Earth like a belt—that's pretty fucking big, right?

Well, Halo was probably big enough to fit snugly into that void in the centre of the construct. I'd guess the entire thing was easily over a hundred thousand kilometers across, measuring from one end of an arm to the end of its opposite.

Now _that's_ pretty fucking big, if I do say so myself. And that's what we were about to land on. It was like September all over again…

The Elite/UNSC fleet dropped down into the inner space of this construct—still well over its atmosphere, but below the tips of its arms. It was in this inner space that the Brute fleet was waiting for us.

Most of the pelicans—all of them bearing marines—all formed up along with Captain Rousseau and began making a beeline for the surface of the construct. Many of them had warthogs attached to their aft magnetic clamps. A few of them—including ours—even bore scorpions.

"So this is the Ark…" the Master Sergeant murmured.

"The what?" Celt asked.

"The Ark," the Master Sergeant repeated himself. "At the war council, the Elites kept on referring to something beyond the Portal called the 'Ark'. I think it's safe to assume that they were talking about this…_thing_."

"We're coming up on the atmosphere!" Captain Rousseau shouted back to us. "It's going to get bumpy, so make sure you're holding onto something!"

Flames licked at the edges of the viewports as we fell through the atmosphere towards what looked like a desert down below. All of the other pelicans were visible through the viewports—we all looked like fiery comets from the friction of reentry.

There was heavy AA fire coming up from below, as well. I later learned that Rousseau and the other pilots had detected Covenant life signs in a large cluster on the surface of this construct, the Ark, centered around a large alien structure. Some kind of maproom—a cartographer, they were calling it. The desert we were landing in was located just shy of the alien structure's position.

This desert, as it turned out, happened to be filled with anti-air emplacements. While it was possible for pelicans to evade the AA fire, there was no way the _Aegis Fate_ would be able to get through it. We'd have to find a way to disable that AA fire if we wanted to clear an LZ for the _Aegis Fate_ and the other vessels.

Several of the pelicans were hit, and they burned up in the atmosphere. The majority of our force, however, was able to reach the surface without getting cooked. But even as we hit the sand, we weren't out of the woods, yet.

The pelicans were sitting ducks for Covie fliers if they were down on the ground, so the pilots quickly dumped their sticks of marines out onto the desert, along with the vehicles, before returning to the skies.

"Here's your stop, gentlemen!" Captain Rousseau shouted as we reached the surface, opening the aft hatch. "God be with you!"

I instinctively waited for Cajun to make a crack about me being an Atheist before remembering he was gone. I shook my head, quickly dispelling those thoughts. I didn't want to forget Cajun, but thinking about him right now would prove detrimental. I needed to focus, and memories of the Louisianan were a distraction.

I jumped out of our bird, followed closely by my squadmates and the five marines who had ridden with us. All but one of the marines broke off to find their platoon leader. Captain Rousseau released the scorpion tank dangling from the magnetic clamp before flying away to join the fight in the sky.

The marine who remained was actually the driver of that scorpion. He was a short, thin man with icy gray eyes. I recognized those eyes as the eyes of a marksman. Though his marksmanship most likely lay with a tank cannon rather than a sniper rifle. He took a moment to clean his wireframe glasses before hopping onto his tank.

"Gunnery Sergeant Irons, 121st Armored Cavalry regiment," the scorpion driver introduced himself as he opened the driver's hatch and clambered inside. "I could use one of you on my turret."

"Much obliged, Gunny," the Master Sergeant replied. He ordered me to take the scorpion's turret before climbing up onto one of the scorpion's treads. Celt and Apache joined him, sitting on two of the other treads, holding onto the handles that had been placed there.

It wasn't customary for men to fight through a battle on a scorpion tank, but it _was_ common for soldiers to ride on top of tanks from Point A to Point B, disembarking when they reached the actual fighting.

I clambered into the gunner's nest for the scorpion's fifty-cal turret, racking the priming bolt and flicking off the safeties, swinging the turret around to face forward.

All of the marines in the ad hoc regiment were climbing into the warthogs and onto the scorpion tanks. A good portion of the warthogs were of the troop transport variant, allowing for more marines to load up.

Once everyone was squared away—and all of this while under constant strafing fire from the banshees, mind you—an albatross heavy dropship descended from the sky and dropped a large, rectangular mobile command center. We called them Elephants because they…um…well, we just called them Elephants.

General Eckhart was commanding the command platform, as he sent out a general COM transmission ordering us to advance once the Elephant was on the ground.

"_The Covies have a command center supplying the power to all of the outlying AA batteries about five kilometers from this position,_" the General informed us over the COM. "_Gentlemen, we are going to destroy that command center and give our squid friends upstairs a place to land__!_"

The COM was filled with dozens, hundreds of marines shouting _oo-rah_ at the tops of their lungs. Though I didn't need to COM to hear it; it was quite audible to the naked ear.

Our forces stormed across the desert, constantly fighting off the banshees that continued to harass us like gnats. Gunnery Sergeant Irons, the driver of our scorpion, fired his main cannon several times during the advance. I don't know how many banshees he knocked out of the sky—I saw at least two go down in flames, but I'm sure Irons was able to hit several more.

When I looked back, I saw that all of our vehicles speeding across the sand dunes had kicked up a considerable dust cloud. It was almost like the Viery Badlands all over again…although, now we were fighting on much more even terms than we had been on Reach.

"You guys realize that this is probably the first time the Covies are actually on the defensive? I mean, like, _completely_ on the defensive?" I asked my comrades. Thinking about the similarities of the here and now to the Viery Badlands had also made me start to think of the differences.

"Go figure," Apache chuckled.

"Do you also realize that this could be the last battle of the war?" the Master Sergeant asked.

That shut everyone up for at least a full minute, until Celt asked, "Ye really think we could end it all here?"

"Well, think about it. If we win, the Covenant will probably collapse, especially without the Elites and the majority of the Hunters or the Grunts to keep it stable," the Master Sergeant pointed out. "And if we lose…well, the Flood'll eat everything in the galaxy, anyway."

"Well, _someone's_ going down when the battle is over, _that's_ for sure," Apache remarked. "Someone, or _every_one. But no one is getting out unscathed."

We reached the Covie command center that General Eckhart had described to us over the COM. In the distance, there were dozens of AA batteries preventing our ships from landing anywhere near the Covies' strongholds, and this was where all the power was being supplied from.

When we crested the last of the sand dunes before our destination, we finally got a good look at our target. I saw a large cluster of ruins, all of them half-buried in the sand. They were all made of a kind of stone, and they had been weathered and worn by millennia of exposure to the elements.

There was a large, long structure in the center that had been divided almost in half by wind erosion, presumably. The smaller half of the structure sported a tall, stone tower stretching up into the sky, while the longer half had several open passageways leading into the corridor inside. There were tall pillars clustered around both ends of the ruined structure.

There were smaller ruins surrounding that central structure as well, but they were too small to be of any consequence.

As it was, the Covies here had set up shop in and around these ruins. There was a sizeable force of wraith tanks and ghosts waiting for us down there, as well as a large number of Brutes, Jackals, and a smaller amount of Grunts—it would appear that not all of the Grunts had sided with the Elites.

The only Covenant structure in the area was a large structure that looked like a sphere placed on top of a pyramid. It crackled with bluish-white plasma energy—that was clearly the Covies' main power source.

The troop transport 'hogs skidded to a halt and unloaded all of the marines that had been riding in them. Those marines started organizing into their respective squads and platoons before advancing steadily on the ruins below.

It would be the job of our vehicular force to take care of the Covenant armor so that our infantry could help clean up the mess without getting mauled.

I don't think the Brutes had been expecting such a large force to be attacking them. Other than the wraiths and ghosts, there really weren't any other strong defenses in place around the ruins. Maybe they hadn't expected the Elites to have our backs, on this one. Were it not for the Elites, we never would have even made it to the surface.

And besides, this area seemed to be more like a first line of defense, anyway. The Covies _really_ seemed to care about defending that alien structure that this desert was located virtually adjacent to. Even if we'd managed to neutralize their force in this location, we wouldn't have had a prayer of taking the Cartographer.

But again, with the Elites by our side…a lot more was possible now than what had been possible in the recent past. And so, instead of facing a disorganized rabble of Human survivors, the Covie defenders found themselves up against a highly-organized, armed-to-the-teeth regiment's-worth of marines.

We made them pay for holding their ground. We lost two scorpions and three warthogs in the fight, but the surviving scorpions managed to work together to pick off the wraiths one by one.

I concentrated my own fire on the ghosts. I don't know how much damage I actually did—there were always several turrets aimed at the ghost I was shooting at any given time. Whenever the ghost I was aiming at finally blew up, I had no way of knowing if it was thanks to my own efforts, or thanks to the efforts of some other marine.

Not that I cared, really. As long as the ghosts ended up getting destroyed, I'd happily cede credit of the kills to anyone else.

Our infantry poured into the ruins once we'd wasted enough of the wraiths and ghosts. More weaponsfire erupted as the marines clashed with the Brutes. Gradually, the Brutes were pushed back from the longer half of the central ruin, and our infantry stormed the corridor that ran inside the structure.

Our armor rumbled around and flanked the Brutes from behind. We strafed the Covies on the smaller half of the central ruins—the part with the giant stone tower—for at least five minutes until the last of the Brute defenders was blown to sunshine.

After that, things got much easier. We encircled the ruins, continuing to pound them until the remaining Jackals and Grunts retreated into the interior. There appeared to be a medium-sized chamber under the tower, accessible through multiple entrances. The remaining Covies were holed up in there.

Marines formed up outside each entrance and, in conjunction with each group, tossed grenades into each entrance before moving in with shotguns. I could hear the blasts for the first few seconds, followed by high-pitched squeals from what sounded like surviving grunts…followed in turn by several loud, carefully-placed pistol shots.

The Grunt survivors fell silent.

Marines silently got to work, setting up shop for General Eckhart and clearing the bodies of the Covenant dead out of the ruins. Our vehicles regouped to one side of the central structure and powered down for the moment. Our demolition teams moved into the Covenant generator structure, and the whole place was a pile of burning wreckage less than three minutes later.

All of the Covenant AA batteries had their own backup power supplies, but the _Aegis Fate_ had a small window of time to move in before the batteries came back online. The clouds parted as the frigate swooped in from high above, slowing down considerably as it neared the surface.

I watched the frigate make a circuit around the ruins, firing its MAC cannon several times and destroying a handful of the AA batteries before coming to a rest not far away from our position.

"Well this was kind of…" Apache frowned as he searched for an appropriate word, before settling for, "_easy_."

And he was right. This _had_ been somewhat…easy. We'd taken very light casualties from this skirmish while the Covie garrison had been completely wiped out. I think this was just another victory for blitzkrieg doctrine—deliver a knock-out blow with your vehicles and armor, then clean up the mess with the infantry.

It was a doctrine that didn't always work, but today…today it worked beautifully.

I watched as the _Saint Elmo's Fire,_ the _Breath of Winter,_ the _Icy Resolve,_ the _Wish Upon a Star,_ and all of the other vessels in the UNSC battlegroup—minus the _Forward Unto Dawn_—descended from the skies, and they set about destroying the remainder of the Covenant AA emplacements. Things were, for the moment, going swimmingly.

I just hoped they'd continue to go that way.

"_Welcome to the Ark, marines,_" General Eckhart spoke over the COM once more. "_We did an exceptional job, here, boys and girls! All we need to do now…is do it again. There's a large structure not far from here called the Cartographer, and the Covies are holding onto it with a death grip! Anything they want to hold onto so badly is worth taking away from them, so we are going to do just that! Well, what do you say? Are you marines ready for another ride through the desert?_"

As before, the area around the ruins thundered with the sound of several thousand marines shouting, "_SIR, YES SIR!_" at the tops of their lungs.

"_It's good that you feel that way, marines!_" General Eckhart chuckled. "_Because it wasn't a request_."


	96. VII Chapter 96: The Cartographer

Chapter Ninety-Six: The Cartographer

**December 4, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "The Ark", Intergalactic Space**

General Eckhart gave us five minutes to regroup and lick our wounds. Lightly wounded marines were bandaged up by the medics who had set up shop in Sandtrap, and then were sent back to the warthogs and scorpions.

Oh, yeah, you'd probably like to know what I meant by 'Sandtrap'. That was the callsign that General Eckhart had given to our little command center/field hospital here. A little unconventional…but I really couldn't think of a better name to suit this place.

Once we'd wasted all of the Covies defending it and knocked out the power supply for the surrounding AA batteries, our naval vessels swooped in for a landing and took out the remainder of the AA emplacements in this desert before driving off the local Covie air wing.

We were able to send our entire force—minus the wounded, the HQ staff, and the field hospital personnel, obviously—away from Sandtrap without fear of reprisal because of the presence of the frigates and the _Breath of Winter_—the single marathon-class cruiser present in our battlegroup.

After those five minutes ticked on by, the Master Sergeant snagged an warthog with Celt and Apache. I remained with Gunnery Sergeant Irons—the scorpion driver who we'd rode into Sandtrap with. He was still in need of a turret gunner, so I was happy to offer my services.

General Eckhart ordered the column to advance once everything was in order. We set off across the desert sands once more, kicking up another giant dust cloud in our wake. If you've never seen a full-scale vehicular assault force charging across a desert, then you don't know what you're missing. It really is quite a sight to see.

For the millionth time in my time as a member of the Flaming 105th, I was grateful for the protection provided by my full helmet. The cloud of dust and sand that was getting kicked up by the dozens of warthogs, scorpions, and dragons would probably be getting in my mouth, nose, and eyes if not for my helmet's faceplate.

Most of the regulars weren't so fortunate. They'd be spitting sand out for hours.

Our objective, according to General Eckhart, was a large alien structure called the Cartographer. That little tidbit of intel pretty much confirmed for me that this place had been built by the same civilization that had built the Halo rings—I remember there being a Cartographer facility on Halo, as well. I hadn't personally seen it, though because Captain Keyes had sent the Master Chief there instead of a force of Helljumpers.

These Cartographer facilities were supposed to, when activated, show the user a detailed schematic of the entire megastructure. Back on Halo, we'd used it to find the location of the ringworld's control room. The Covies wanted to fire the ring for some fucked up religious reason, but we'd managed to stop them. Well, the _Master Chief_ had managed to stop them. We did our part, but it was ultimately thanks to the legendary Spartan that Halo did not fire that day.

Apparently the Covies tried to do the exact same thing on that second Halo ring in early November, but they'd been stopped by the initial alliance between the Elite and Human forces on the construct.

If the Ark had a Cartographer, it probably had a Control Room, as well. The Master Sergeant had once mentioned something about this construct being an installation similar to the Halo rings. The Covies seemed keen on activating this place, just like all the others. And if activating a Halo ring would end up wiping all life from the galaxy, I didn't really want to know what the consequences of firing the Ark would be.

"_Covie fliers, comin' in low at two o'clock!_" one of the other tank commanders warned the rest of the force.

Our column continued heading straight towards the mountains in the distance, but the main cannons of the tanks all began to swivel in the direction indicated by the whistleblower. Sure enough, a formation of a dozen of so banshees were swooping down from the clouds, nose cannons ablaze.

Our tanks opened fire, and that opening barrage destroyed two of the fliers and damaged an additional seven. While the tanks reloaded, a marine in one of the warthog managed to strike another of the Covie fliers with a heat-seeking missile.

The banshees scored a hit on one of our warthogs, which exploded in a fiery haze, followed closely by another. Two warthogs down. Six men dead.

The tanks' second barrage knocked down the rest of the damaged banshees and crippled the remaining two, prompting the pair of survivors to turn tail and run. Live today, fight tomorrow. Or rather, live today, fight again in about an hour.

Our column continued to rumble across the sand dunes until we finally reached those mountains.

The Ark was, for all intents and purposes, artificial. While on a natural planet, the transition from desert to mountains might have been more gradual, but on the Ark it was rather abrupt. We ran into a solid wall of rock. There were no valleys that connected the mountain range to the desert—it was just a solid, impassible wall of rock.

We had to detour around the mountainside for several kilometers until we reached a canyon within the mountain range. We still couldn't access it, though—the rock face sat in our way; stubborn and obstinate. But this part of the rock face was more of a wall than an actual mountainside—the canyon was just on the other side.

No matter. General Eckhart—who was accompanying us in a rocket warthog—called in the _Aegis Fate_. We kept to a safe distance as the frigate gently glided up from behind us. It fired its MAC cannon once and completely obliterated that rock wall. When the dust cleared, the remains of the rock wall formed a crude ramp of sorts up into the mountain canyon.

"_Much obliged, Commander,_" General Eckhart thanked the skipper of the _Aegis Fate_ as we continued on our way.

"_Keep in one piece out there, general, sir,_" Commander Jaeger responded.

Sergeant Irons cleared the wreckage a minute or so later. We had to wait for a good portion of the column ahead of us to funnel into the canyon, so it took some extra time. But not much.

The canyon started out as a wide cleft between two mountains, but it quickly narrowed into a shallow gorge. We rounded a corner and soon found ourselves moving past metal alloy support beams. There was a semi-transparent alloy platform built into the rock face high above, and the beams extended all the way down to the ground.

It was possible to continue driving to the left the gorge and away from the beams, but it was also possible to hug the right side of the gorge and move under the arches connecting the support beams to the rock face. Unfortunately, this narrowed our advance even more—forcing most of our vehicles to proceed two-by-two.

We continued down this gorge for a short distance until it ran into an intersection of sorts. The gorge continued on further up into the mountains, but that path was inaccessible. The only way we could go was to the right, where the gorge opened up into a large opening in the canyon.

On the left side of the miniature valley was a natural shelf of rock that ran around the perimeter of the gap from our position all the way to the opposite mountainside. On the far side of the miniature valley was an artificial metallic ledge. It looked exactly like a bridge, only it wasn't connecting one side of a drop to another—it was simply hugging the opposite mountainside, running from where the natural shelf of rock ended to what looked like a doorway into the rock.

If we were to go straight ahead—which was what we did—we'd end up dipping down into the precipice. This valley was at least a hundred or so feet deep, and the hill we were currently on top of was the only natural way in or out. The only other options were the door at the top of the 'bridge' above us, or the dark, yawning opening in the mountainside at ground level.

Oh yeah, and this entire valley was filled with destroyed Brute vehicles. There were a couple of wrecked wraiths, a couple more burning choppers, and maybe even a prowler or two. Covie corpses littered the place—especially on that metallic bridge up above. The forces from the _Forward Unto Dawn_ had definitely passed through here.

That was typical of Keyes. Land ahead of everyone else and quickly drive your forces against the objective without bothering to wait for the main force to arrive. We were too busy worrying about the _rest_ of the fleet.

The opening in the mountainside at ground level looked like an oversized, open garage door. The interior appeared to be a giant corridor for vehicles, lit by bluish-white strip lights. It's walls, ceiling, and floor were composed entirely of the same metal alloy that the bridge was made of—as well as practically every structure that I'd came across back on Halo.

"_Through the tunnel, boys!_" General Eckhart spurred us onward. "_Let's move it along! The Covies aren't getting any younger!_"

_And a lot of us won't be getting any _older_ because of that,_ the voice in my head said wryly. Many of my emotions had taken a severe beating this past year, but the old cynicism had never gone away.

We headed into the tunnel. It felt odd, almost like we were just rumbling through a large corridor indoors someplace. But those ridiculous feelings were quickly obliterated once we emerged from the other side.

The tunnel ran under the mountain separating us from our objective. We rumbled through darkness at first. Then we actually emerged into a giant room. There was a tier running along one of the walls. Up on that tier was what appeared to be some sort of control station. As I wondered what it could possibly control, I looked back in front of us, and my silent question was answered.

Most of this room was basically a giant shaft, save for the tier. Spanning the drop, however, was an energy bridge. I'd seen them before on Halo; they looked like bridges made out of light. At first, I'd been hesitant to walk upon them. Once I did, however, I'd been surprised to find that, even though they looked like they were made out of mere light, they were as solid as titanium.

We slowed and crossed the bridge vehicle by vehicle, one at a time. Once we made it to the other side, we entered the second half of the tunnel, which soon emerged into the valley where our objective was located.

Our objective—the Cartographer—was a magnificent structure, if I do say so myself. It was massive—easily several thousand feet tall. It was almost tetrahedral in shape.

I guess a good way to describe it would be to picture a giant metal pyramid. Then cut off the four corners of the pyramid, as well as the top, so you have a flat-topped, sloping plus sign, almost. The upper half of the structure looked like someone had planted a mainmast and a sail right in the center of the pyramid. The triangular section—the 'sail'—extended from the 'mast' out towards the ocean beyond.

That's just the rough shape of it, though. The actual structure itself was much more complex than the rough shape, but it would take me hours to accurately describe _half_ the shit I saw on this place.

Another aspect about the valley we emerged into was that it ended not far ahead of us. It ran more or less flat, gently sloping away from the mountains we'd just come under, but then it suddenly dropped off into an abyss right at the level of the Cartographer's position. On the other side of the abyss was an ocean, and that formed a constant waterfall all along the opposite edge of the abyss. Almost like an ocean at the edge of the world, pouring out into nothingness.

The Cartographer structure was built into the edge of _this_ side of the chasm, extending out slightly over the drop.

This valley was even more littered with corpses and destroyed vehicles—both Human and Covenant—than the last one. More evidence of Commander Keyes's premature push. Unfortunately, the Brutes appeared to have sent reinforcements. Even now, I could see groups of the aliens heading up the side of the Cartographer, funneling into one of the entrances.

Surprisingly enough, a couple of tanks from the previous assault force were still fighting back. They would keep cover behind the natural rock formations dotting the valley, breaking cover only to trade shots with the Covenant armor.

The Brutes had a sizeable force of wraiths and choppers moving up from the edge of the chasm, where a small group of phantoms had dropped them off. They must have been deployed within the last few minutes, as they seemed to have only just started advancing.

There was a Covenant battlecruiser hovering in the sky over the ocean, not far from the Cartographer. It was definitely a Brute-controlled ship, as it started to turn towards us as we spilled out into the valley. That ship was really starting to make me nervous until General Eckhart called in our own ships.

In a one-on-one fight, that battlecruiser could have easily wasted one of our frigates, so Eckhart's response came in the form of _four_ ships. The _Breath of Winter,_ which was our only cruiser, led another three frigates over the mountains and straight into the battlecruiser's path. The battlecruiser hadn't yet completed its turn, exposing its side to our little strike force.

Even for a Covie ship, four MAC blasts in quick succession was too much to bear. The sound of the MAC cannons firing was deafening, and our ships weren't even above us. They were well over to the…er…over to the side, and behind us.

Sorry, I was trying to think off what direction they were in, but it's kind of hard to measure north/east/south/west when you're not on a spherical planet. We never established which of the Ark's arm could be considered _north_… Luckily, all of our operations were taking place within several kilometers of each other, so coordination wasn't too big of an issue.

Still…pointing in a direction and then not knowing what to call that direction…it's almost like picking up a book one day and realizing you'd suddenly forgotten how to read.

At least we'd only be staying here until we fucked the Prophet of Truth up the asshole with a MAC cannon, and all his Brutes with him. After that was done, we'd be able to find this mystery solution to the Flood, go back to Earth…and take it from there. At any rate, we'd have our cardinal directions back. It would be a start.

"_Garris! Pull your head outta your ass and fire the fucking turret!_" Gunnery Sergeant Irons's voice shouted into my ear from my COM.

_Fuck_. I was doing it again. Even when the war was possibly at an endgame, even when plasma bolts were exploding all around me, even when God's capgun was going off next to my ear every few seconds, I still managed to lapse into my thought-induced daydreams.

I dragged my mind back to reality just as a Brute chopper started peppering Irons's tank. The tank commander was busy trading shots with a wraith, so the main cannon wasn't aimed anywhere near the rapidly-approaching chopper. The task of fending it off fell to me.

I squeezed the triggers, grinning slightly as I felt the power of the turret under my hands. Sparks cascaded off the chassis of the chopped as my storm of lead lopped off chunks of its armor. The shields of the Brute driver shimmered as they absorbed my firepower.

Despite the resiliency of both the vehicle and its driver, they proved to be only that; resilient, and not invincible. As the chopper really started bearing down on me, I think I hit something critical in its engine, because it finally broke apart in a fiery explosion of yellow and orange flame. Its driver was flung far away from the wreckage, its shields flickering away and dying.

I watched the alien arc through the air and smash against the rocks. There was no way it was getting up again after that.

By then, Sergeant Irons had finished off the wraith he had been dueling for the past thirty seconds. He turned us towards another pair of wraiths and advanced down the gradual slope towards the Cartographer structure and the gaping chasm.

Another scorpion and a dragon came up on our flanks. The marine on the other scorpion's turret tossed me a mock salute as his tank passed us by.

It took us nearly ten minutes to completely flush out all of the Brute forces in the area. Their prowlers and choppers were harder to hit, and they managed to take a good number of our warthogs with them before we destroyed the last ones.

Their wraiths were also a persistent thorn in our side. Because their main weapon was essentially a mortar, they could hide out behind a rock formation or any other kind of natural barrier and just hurl plasma at us to their heart's content. Because the scorpions required a straight line of fire to hit a target, we had to play a constant game of cat and mouse with the Covie tanks just to be able to _shoot_ at them.

By the time we'd finished off the last of the Covenant reinforcements, Commander Keyes's forces—who had been already inside the Cartographer by the time we arrived—had discovered the location of the Ark's control room.

That confirmed my earlier suspicion that the Ark might have a control room. I wouldn't mind knowing what would happen if this installation was activated…but at the same time, I really wasn't all that eager to find out.

As the dust started to settle, General Eckhart ordered his forces to set up a perimeter around the Cartographer and await further orders. Interestingly enough, he then set a waypoint on top of the small alien structure in the centre of the valley and ordered my squad specifically to report to that location.

I relayed my instructions to Sergeant Irons, who drove his scorpion over to the beacon and dropped me off. "I'll see you on the other side, Helljumper," the scorpion driver wished me farewell.

"Stay in one piece, Gunny," I returned the gesture as I hopped off the scorpion and into the dust. Irons drove away, and I turned, heading up the ramp to the very top of the spire.

I found two pelicans waiting on the top level, along with Commander Angiers, Celt, and Apache.

I noticed that the Master Sergeant was absent. I frowned and started to ask where he was, but the Commander already anticipated what my question would be. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to designate you leader of Archangel for this next op," Angiers said to me. "Though Archangel seems to have become more of a fireteam, as of late."

"Sarge got hit by shrapnel from an exploding wraith," Apache informed me. "He's being taken back to Sandtrap for surgery."

"He'll live," Commander Angiers assured me—again, anticipating my next question. "But, as cold and heartless as it might sound, we have more pressing matters. Our discovery of the Ark's control room—a superluminal communications array that the Cartographer calls the 'Citadel'—has revealed several new obstacles that stand between us and victory. The only one you need to worry about is the fact that the Citadel is protected by a massive, impenetrable energy shield. Even now, the Prophet of Truth and his inner circle hide behind the protection of this shield, safe from the Elites' guns."

"We get to take that shield down, I'm assuming?" I asked.

"You get to _help,_" Commander Angiers replied. "It'll take three teams to complete the job. You'll have the Elites' help on this one, too. As for you…you men will not be doing this alone. You wouldn't stand a chance by yourselves, so I'm sending you in with some extra help. I want to wish you the best of luck. Humanity is depending on you."

"No pressure," Celt grumbled.

Commander Angiers traded salutes with us, and then climbed into Captain Rousseau's pelican and flew away. The pilot of the second pelican emerged from the cockpit and beckoned for us to come aboard.

"I'm assuming you're the Helljumpers that the spook told me to pick up," she said to us as we clambered into the troop bay. "If you aren't, then you better be off my ship in the next ten seconds, because we're not going anyplace nice."

"We _are_ your Helljumpers, ma'am," I was quick to offer confirmation. "Take us to the Citadel."

The pilot fired up the engines and we took off, rising away from the spire. We crossed over the valley and circled around to the front of the Cartographer, hovering over the yawning chasm, the thunder of the falling water filling whatever silence the sound of the pelican's engines did not occupy.

"We're making a quick pit-stop first," the pilot informed us. "Hang in there."

The pilot slowed the engines and propelled us only with the maneuvering thrusters, sliding into the Cartographer structure.

There were already another three pelicans present, but ours was the only one coming in for a landing. The space we glided into appeared to be a sort of landing pad set inside of the structure itself. The remains of a Covenant hologram emitter lay in the centre of the space, and the corpses of what looked like an entire pack of Brutes littered the rest of the place.

In the middle of it all was a lone figure in dull, battered, green battle armor. He rose to his feet at our approach, standing up to a height of roughly seven feet tall.

A Spartan.

He started walking towards us when suddenly the pilot began conversing with someone over her COM. Without warning, a swarm of small, shadowy objects began to rise out of the chasm. They looked like flies, at first…then birds…then they emerged into the light, right in front of our faces, and their true forms were revealed.

They were a swarm of robots. They comprised of multiple metallic booms with a glowing blue eye in the center. I could tell that they weren't just floating computers. Some level of intelligence pulsed beneath those azure lenses—perhaps not the same level as one of our smart AIs, but enough intelligence to be a deadly adversary in a fight.

Several of them actually turned to look at us as they rose up into the sky. It was somewhat unnerving, almost like they were regarding us as specimens for observation rather than people. I wondered what dictated who they considered an enemy and who they considered an ally. They weren't attacking us, though, so I suppose I was grateful enough just for that.

Once the robot-creatures ascended not too far above my current eye level, they started to head forward, away from the Cartographer and over the ocean on the other side of the chasm. Once they cleared the chasm, they suddenly started accelerating to an incredibly fast speed, vanishing into the distance. More and more continued to rise up from the depths—there had to be thousands of them.

Wherever they were going and what their objective was would remain a mystery, for now. Our pilot backed us into the Cartographer's makeshift landing pad, where the Spartan was still waiting. He gripped his assault rifle with one hand and grabbed hold of the pelican with the other, hauling himself into the troop bay.

I would've offered him a hand, but he probably would have yanked me out of the ship if I'd tried to help him up.

I'd been up right at the edge of the troop bay as I debated whether to offer a hand, so when the Spartan pulled himself into the troop bay I was able to get a brief look at his unit insignia on one of his shoulders. It was a silver eagle bearing three arrows in one talon and a lightning bolt in the other, with a golden star shining above its head.

Beneath the eagle was the number 117.


	97. VII Chapter 97: Legends in the Flesh

Chapter Ninety-Seven: Legends in the Flesh

**December 4, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "The Ark", Intergalactic Space**

I took a seat in between Celt and Apache, regarding the Spartan as he took the bench opposite us. As our pilot fired the main engines, sending us hurtling through the skies towards the core of the Ark, we regarded each other silently and anonymously through our opaque, reflective faces—ours smooth silver, and his brilliant gold.

"Nice day for a slaughter, eh?" Celt quipped, breaking the silence.

The Spartan turned to glance at the Irishman. I could almost see the frown underneath the blank gold faceplate.

Celt gave a light shrug. "_Humorless shite_…" he muttered under his breath. I'm sure the Spartan heard the Irishman, but he gave no other outward reaction, nor did Celt seem to care.

I decided to try and break the ice with some common ground. "You were the one on Halo?" I asked him.

That got his attention. "How do you know of Installation 04?" he queried.

"I fought there, as did my squadmate," I replied, gesturing to Celt.

"Under Silva?" the Spartan's tone was coated with an ever-so-light layer of contempt. I couldn't really blame him, I suppose… There are some Helljumpers who do not partake in the animosity between our outfit and the Spartans, but Antonio Silva had sure as fuck not been one of them. While I bore no ill will towards the man, I'm sure the Spartan would have a drastically different opinion of him.

"Under him, yes," I chose my words carefully. "As did we all. Not all of us would have survived going off on our own, like you did. But I was not part of his unit. His command over me was one of circumstance and necessity. Order had to be maintained, and Captain Keyes was absent for most of the battle."

The Master Chief was silent for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "Good to know there were others who made it home."

"Only a handful of us."

"Even one survivor is better than none," the Spartan murmured. "There'll still be someone left to tell the story…"

The way he finished that sentence kind of left no space for further conversation, so when the silence settled over us once more, I did not move to break it. Instead, I settled for resting my head back against the bulkhead and closing my eyes. I was eventually lulled to sleep by the rhythmic vibrations of the pelican's engines.

It was little more than a power nap, though. When I was roused, I felt neither tired nor invigorated. In truth, I felt as if all I had done was simply close my eyes for a few seconds.

At least two hours had passed, as I determined by looking at my mission clock. It appeared to be mid-afternoon, based on the daylight. There was an artificial sun in the sky that was able to proficiently simulate a day/night cycle. It wasn't the same as what would be found on a real planet…but the closest equivalent to the current time of day would be mid-afternoon.

When Apache shook me awake, I saw that we were still flying over an ocean. There were now four other pelicans flying alongside us, and behind us I could see two phantoms. But these phantoms were no ordinary phantoms; instead of the customary purple, they had been painted gunmetal green.

And it wasn't a slapdash paint job, either. Those dropships looked as if they'd just come off the assembly line. But regardless of what color the phantoms were, it was what they represented that sent a nice shiver up my spine. Anticipation, almost, of what lay ahead. We had the support of the Elites once more.

It's like I've said before. I hold no warm feelings towards the split-chins…but it sure felt good to fight alongside them.

"Three minutes ETA!" Hocus, our pilot, hollered back into the troop bay. "Now's the time for prayers!"

The Spartan and I made no movement, but Celt absent-mindedly fingered his rosary beads and Apache murmured something in a strange language that I did not know. I grabbed my sniper rifle and slung it over my back, pulling out my magnum and checking the ammo.

I could probably use a midrange weapon, but I did not have one in my current possession. I'd have to pick up a Covie weapon if I ended up needing one.

"One minute!" Hocus exclaimed.

I rose to my feet and glanced through the viewport, trying to see what lay ahead. It was a limited view, but I could see a great wall of barely visible energy shimmering in the distance. A beach was also visible, as well as the cliffs and forests beyond it.

The energy was brightest at three points, three towers. Power sources. I remembered Commander Angiers mentioning that taking down the energy shield was going to require three strike teams, and now I saw why. Three teams would go and attack three towers—one team per tower. Once all three towers went down, the energy barrier would fall. Or at least, this section of it would.

As we neared the mainland, our little formation of dropships broke apart. Three pelicans headed towards the tower on the far left while Hocus banked to the right, along with the last pelican. The Elite phantoms held course and continued straight for the middle tower.

I peered down at the water whizzing on by as we sped toward land. The water quickly morphed to the white sands of a small beach, followed by green grass and vegetation. The moment we reached land, though, the air suddenly lit up with crackling green Covie anti-air fire.

"Charlie Foxtrot!" Hocus shouted, gripping the controls of the pelican. I couldn't agree with her more. "Tower One approach has active Triple-A!"

Triple-A means anti-aircraft artillery, in case you're wondering. And even if you weren't sure what it meant, I think the AA fire exploding all around us would give a pretty good hint.

Hocus was able to keep it together, but the other pelican on our flank wasn't so lucky. It was struck several times in the underbelly, causing it to lurch forward, its systems quickly failing.

"_Mayday! I can't control her!_" the pilot of the stricken pelican shouted.

The other pelican tried to veer off, but it crashed right into the rear of our own dropship. It crumpled the warthog that was dangling from our magnetic clamp and slammed into the back of the troop bay before falling back to the ground, wreathed in flames.

I was thrown off my feet by the impact. I ended up getting flung all the way back to the cockpit bulkhead, banging my head and shoulder. I swore under my breath, massaging the bruises on my shoulder and arm that were about to form as I got back to my feet.

Celt and Apache had been sitting down, and were thus spared. The Spartan had been standing as well, but he'd been able to keep his footing. Kudos to him…

As Hocus regained control of her bird and piloted us further on down the beach to a safer LZ, I caught a glimpse of the cause of our misery—an anti-air artillery wraith. It was basically a normal wraith, with one major difference; instead of having a plasma mortar as its main weapon, it had a battery of fuel rod cannons mounted on top.

We were going to need to fight our way down along the beach and up into the hills…and the first thing standing in our way was that AA wraith. It had to go.

The Master Chief strode up the troop bay and ducked into the cockpit for a moment before returning with a large, clunky black object on his shoulder. I thought it was a missile launcher, at first—it was the right size…but upon closer inspection, I realized that it was actually a Spartan Laser. I hadn't seen one of those bad boys in action for years.

Hocus dropped us off at the base of a sea cliff at the one end of the beach, not far from the hill which the AA wraith was roving around on. I held my magnum ready as I jumped down from the troop bay and onto the grass. The Spartan had gone ahead of me, and my two squadmates were right on my heels.

The Master Chief sprinted down to the water beyond the beach and waded out around the rocks, intending to flank the Covies' positions.

I took Celt and Apache, and we forged ahead. There were a few natural barriers between our insertion point and the Covies' strong point on top of that hill—several tall rock formations and a few trees, to be exact. There had also been a few grunts milling about the area where we landed. I popped one with my magnum, and Celt wasted the rest.

There was a small stream trickling down from the hills and onto the beachhead, where it flowed into the ocean. It separated us from the AA wraith's hill, as well. There were two shade turrets mounted on the other side of that stream, in front of the hill, and they started peppering us with plasmafire the moment we poked our heads around the rocks.

I told my squadmates to hold position while I headed down to another rock formation, taking up a good position to snipe the gunners from those turrets. Just as I edged around and centered my crosshairs on one of the turrets, however, a beam of searing red light suddenly blew a gaping hole right through the turret, knocking it off its anti-grav plate. It blew apart as it hit the ground and rolled into the stream.

I settled for sniping the gunner out of the _other_ turret. They were crewed by Grunts, and I could see more of the little ticks scrabbling about on the hill. It would seem that not all of the Grunts sided with the Elites after the Covenant civil war broke out. Most…but not all.

Another grunt tried to take the turret, but I sniped it the moment it climbed inside.

"Move up!" I shouted to my squadmates, pressing the Brutes' position while the remaining shade turret was unmanned. I broke cover and moved down to the stream, splashing through the water to the other side.

I reloaded my magnum and kept aim at the top of the hill as I advanced. I could hear the AA wraith unloading its battery every few seconds, streaks of green plasma energy crackling up into the sky. But as I crossed the stream and neared the hill, the giant, hulking form of a Brute war chieftain—the Brutes who wore golden armor with the Y-shaped helmets—appeared on the rim of the hilltop.

It took me only a moment to see the fuel rod gun cradled in the Brute chieftain's arms. By the time I processed what I was seeing, three or four crackling bolts of green energy were already screaming my way.

"_Fuck!_" I swore, diving to the side. I turned the dive into a somersault and ended up back on my feet, but I was still close enough to the explosions to end up getting blown off my feet, anyway. So much for gymnastics.

I landed in the stream, on my back. My armor was able to withstand the vacuum of space—getting submerged in a little stream gave me no hindrance. Still, though…it was kind of irritating.

I picked myself up out of the stream, muttering under my breath and shaking water off my weapons. The chieftain was now firing his fuel rod gun out towards the beach. I turned and was able to see the Master Chief dodging the shots.

I holstered my magnum and pulled my sniper rifle from my back, bringing the scope up to my eye and taking aim at the chieftain. I squeezed the trigger and fired, striking the chieftain in the head. Its shields flared as they deflected the shot. My second shot also struck its skull and was able to drain the shields, but left the Covie otherwise unharmed.

The chieftain swung around to open fire at me once again. It squeezed off several shots, which I was able to evade. But even as if fired at me, the Spartan opened fire from the beach with a BR55, knocking off the chieftain's helmet and putting lead straight through its skull.

The chieftain gave a gurgling growl and crumpled, its body tumbling down off of the hilltop.

"Aw, _shite!_" I heard Celt shout further on up towards the cliffs. I looked in that direction and saw the Irishman backing up, firing his assault rifle at a berserking Brute captain.

I fell to a knee and loosed my third shot straight into the Brute's side, knocking out its shields and penetrating its abdomen. It stumbled and fell into a faceplant. It moved to get back up on its feet, but Apache came up from behind and planted his boot on the Covie's neck, drawing his combat knife and thrusting it deep into the back of the Brute's head.

I jogged up along the stream and joined my squadmates. There was a whole fucking _pack_ of the creatures on that hill with the AA wraith. Most of them were lower-ranking members—minors and majors—but there was still another captain and a Brute ultra to be had.

I fired my last shot into the shields of the Ultra before my rifle clacked empty. I ejected the empty mag and slapped a fresh one in, raising my rifle and resuming my sniping, dropping the shields of the charging Brute Ultra. I lowered my rifle and drew my magnum with my left hand, taking quick aim and dropping the charging Ultra with a single slug.

"We should be moving up into the hills, by now…" I muttered, reverting back to my rifle and taking down another Brute minor. "This is taking too…fucking…_long!_" I ducked as a Brute Major attempted to behead me with a swipe from the crescent-shaped bayonets from its spiker rifle.

I whipped out my combat knife and plunged it into the Brute's knee, sliding it between the creases in its armor. The Covie roared at the pain and shifted its balance. I didn't give it a chance to recover; I raised my rifle and slammed its butt into the Brute's chest with every ounce of strength I could muster, toppling the creature.

Pain exploded under my right shoulderblade, right along my side. I couldn't believe it. I'd just pulled a fucking muscle in my back from that little stunt.

I forced the pain into a dark corner and jammed my magnum into the downed Brute's mouth, blowing a hole through the back of its head for the sun to shine through.

I looked up from my latest kill just in time to see blue and white flames consume the AA wraith. As it blew up into pieces, the Master Chief came sailing through the flames and landed on his feet in front of the destroyed tank. It looked like something straight out of a cheap action movie. Only it'd just happened in real life, so maybe it wasn't so cheap.

Celt, Apache, and I continued to fight the remaining Brutes, but the Master Chief ended up killing the majority of them. He made his way in between the Covies, taking them down with gunfire and blunt force from both the butts of his weapon and his bare fists.

As I watched the Spartan tear through the rest of the Brutes, it reminded me of Sam-G113, one of the SPARTAN-IIIs I'd encountered in Kiev. The way she'd weave from Covie to Covie was almost like a dance. The Master Chief lacked the grace of that particular SPARTAN-III, but he was considerably more powerful and deadly in close-quarters combat. Natural talent customarily bows to the might of experience…and experience was something Sierra-117 possessed plenty of.

I could claim the same for myself, but—unlike the good Spartan—I hadn't been chosen to have the Steroids of God shoved up my ass by ONI. My experience was of a different sort, tempered by incredible fortune.

I think that, in a war such as this, there are several kinds of survivors. The uniting quality of all survivors is that they each possess an extraordinary amount of luck. But the experienced veterans…there are those like the Master Chief, or even my own squadmates—especially the Master Sergeant—who continue to spit in the face of Death and defy all the odds, surviving whatever Fate threw at them. But I do not consider myself such a man.

I consider myself almost akin to a cockroach… A cockroach that has been stomped on many times, but it just refuses to die when it is supposed to. There's nothing particularly special about it. It possesses no great strength or cunning, no unnatural abilities, no destiny or any kind of fate…it simply won't die, even if it wants to.

I didn't enjoy comparing myself to a cockroach, but I found the comparison unsettlingly accurate.

Bah…enough of this. I'm slipping into my own thoughts again…

Once the last of the Brutes fell, the Spartan led us past the hill and down onto the beach. I could see a small ravine leading deeper up into the hills. Based on our current position and the direction the path headed, I think it would be safe to assume that it would lead us straight to our objective: the first generator tower.

Two pelicans descended from the skies to the beach, dropping off a warthog and a mongoose, respectively, along with a squad of marine regulars, many of them wielding various articles of Covenant weaponry.

The Master Chief climbed onto the back of the mongoose, wielding his Spartan Laser. He beckoned for one of the marines to take the driver's seat. I eyed the mongoose with disdain; I have no idea why the military ever even considered utilizing such vehicles in its campaigns. Warthogs were unsafe enough; mongooses were a whole 'nother ballpark. They basically took ATVs and gave them a fancy military name—they were usually used by runners to relay messages when COM systems went down; not in battle.

But the Chief seemed to favor it, so I wasn't going to argue. I climbed into the passenger seat of the warthog. Apache took the wheel and Celt the turret. Once we were all squared away, I ordered the rest of the regulars to hold this position and make sure the Covies didn't try to send anything up our ass while we were forging ahead through the hills.

"Let's go," I nodded to Apache.

The Native American nodded and started the warthog's engine, putting the pedal to the metal so that we could keep up with the Master Chief, who had already sped ahead.

The moment we lost sight of the beach, we were set upon by another shade turret. The path through the hills made a sharp turn before heading up into the higher slopes. There was a sheer rock formation overlooking the mouth of the pass that formed the switchback, forcing us to make the sharp turn in order to proceed. The shade turret was placed at the edge of this mini-cliff, and it fired down on us as we passed by.

"Hold onto something!" Apache shouted, wrenching the wheel to the right, sending us into a hairpin turn, causing us to drift several meters across the dirt. The shade turret was swiveling around, trying to get us back in its sights.

It was too late. By the time the shade had us dead to rights, the front of our warthog had already slammed into the plasma turret, knocking it off the anti-grav plate and over the escarpment.

Celt fired the LAAG and hosed the group of jackals that had been stationed around the shade turret, putting them on the express lane to the Afterlife.

Apache threw us into reverse, getting us back onto the path before sending us rocketing forward once more. We followed the path's arc up through the hills until the incline became level ground. We emerged into a rather spacious valley—the path we were on morphed into a ledge that hugged the cliffs and descended down to the valley floor below. Another stream flowed down from the cliffs above, crossed the path, and flowed down once more to the valley below.

There was another ledge on the opposite side of the valley—a shade turret was mounted there. In the center of the valley, on the opposite side of the stream that bisected it, a wraith tank stood guard, waiting for us. On the far side of the valley, there were no cliffs. There was only the base of the first tower, and the cave leading to its entrance.

There were two ghosts sitting at the spot on the ledge where the stream crossed it. An equal number of grunts were resting in the shade of the trees. They squealed at the sight of us and leapt to their feet, making for the vehicles, but Celt turned them into Covie versions of Swiss cheese with our turret.

The Master Chief went ahead. It was a sight to see—he managed to keep his balance and stand up straight on the back of his mongoose, aiming the Spartan Laser at the wraith. He fired the weapon, searing a gaping hole through the wraith's armor.

We let the Chief handle the wraith. Apache took us down the slope and into the valley, crossing the stream. We headed past the shade turret even as if opened fire at us. Celt returned fire with our turret, peppering the Covie plasma emplacement and trading fire with the jackals stationed around it.

Apache took us to the very back of the valley, where we were able to turn onto the natural 'ramp' that led up to the shade turret's position. By the time we reached the shade, Celt had already killed its gunner, and set about clearing out the jackals.

Down below, the wraith exploded in a haze of blue-white flame. Even as the pieces fell to the ground, another surprise was waiting for us; two Brute prowlers emerged from the cave leading to the first tower's entrance, their turret gunners opening fire on the Chief.

Apache revved the engine and shot us forward, right off the edge of the escarpment. We hung in the air for a split-second, the tires spinning madly, before gravity took hold and pulled us to the ground.

I grunted in pain as the impact jostled my back, but gave no other outward reaction. The wheels gained purchase and we sped forward, splashing through the shallow stream. Celt opened fire on one of the prowlers, striking the Brute turret gunner from its seat.

The gunner had been firing in the opposite direction, towards the mongoose, so it really hadn't stood a chance. The prowler itself, as well as its driver, quickly followed the fate of its gunner. The second prowler fell to the Master Chief's Spartan Laser.

The valley fell silent once more, save for the sound of our own machines. We linked back up with the Chief and his marine driver. Apache signaled that he'd lead the way into the tower approach. He floored it and sent us rushing down the incline.

A sizeable group of grunts and jackals, led by a couple of Brutes, were coming up and out of the cave, and there was a shade turret mounted in front of the first tower's entrance.

Apache pushed the warthog to greater speeds, pulping many of the lesser Covies. One of the Brutes got in out way as well, and it was dashed to the floor and against a wall, its body bent at impossible angles.

Apache drove us straight down the ramp and into the shade turret as it started opening fire. Most of the plasma bolts impacted against the windshield, but one of them was able to strike my squadmate in the chest.

"_Fuck!_" the Native American howled, slamming on the brakes and clutching at his burned chest. The armor had absorbed most of the blast, but the sheer heat of the plasma bolt would still cause severe burns, which were extremely painful. I heard Apache utter some of the vilest language I've ever heard come from his mouth. It was odd, hearing such profanity from Apache—the man swore even less frequently than the Master Sergeant.

"You alright, Eyota?" I asked, using Apache's real surname for the first time since…I couldn't even remember.

"I just got hammered in the chest by a dose of superheated plasma—no, I'm fucking not alright!" the Native American snapped. However, he grabbed his M7 SMG and hopped out of the warthog. "Not dead yet, though. It'll take more than that to bring a Lakota to his knees."

Celt climbed down from the turret as the Chief roared into the cave on his mongoose. The marine driver killed the engine and dismounted, the Spartan along with him.

Without another word, the Spartan led the way through the doors, which sensed the movement and opened for him. Inside, we were greeted by a temporary silence. I could see several Brutes at the far end of the chamber, surrounded by a significant amount of underlings. They took note of our arrival, and immediately sprang into action.

I ignored the throbbing pain in my back and drew my magnum. I could have picked up a spiker rifle, but I hated the weapons favored by the Brutes. Plasma weapons I could tolerate, but not the clunky, misshapen abominations of the Brutes.

A hail of plasmafire and spiker projectiles came screaming our way, prompting us to dive to cover. The Master Chief sprinted straight down the middle of the chamber into the thick of it all, his energy shields flaring up from the battering.

The rest of us broke off and ducked to the left, where a smaller corridor ran around the outer perimeter of the chamber to the doors at the opposite end leading deeper into the first tower.

There were several grunts occupying this corridor, but they were busy firing at the Spartan who was busy slaughtering their brethren. They were not my concern, though. My concern lay with the pair of jackals perched atop a tier at the other end of the corridor, armed with carbines. If we charged this corridor, those jackals would turn us into cold cuts, so they had to be dealt with first.

As one of the jackals aimed at Celt, who opened fire on the grunts in the hallway, I fired my own magnum, striking the jackal in the skull. Purple blood sprayed the wall behind it. Because these jackals were sharpshooters bearing carbines, they did not possess the arm-shield that many of their kind fought with. This made them much easier to countersnipe.

The second jackal squeezed off several shots at me, and would most certainly have added me to its kill list had I not already anticipated its retaliation. I was already back behind the cover of the hallway's curvature as the bright beams of green energy seared into the floor where I'd previously stood.

I already knew the second jackal's position, so I stepped out of cover already aiming at where its head had been. My first shot, borne of pure reflex, missed the buzzard's head by several inches, but my second shot was much more accurate.

"Scratch two buzzards," I reported to my squadmates. "Hallway clear. Move up."

Celt, Apache, and the marine had finished off the remaining grunts by now. We crouched down and speed-walked our way to the other end of the hall. I peeked around the corner and saw one last remaining Brute directing a small group of jackals with arm-shields; all of whom were about to wear down the Chief's energy shields.

I turned back to the three men behind me and made the quick hand signal for grenades. As one, we all pulled frags from our belts and primed them. I signaled a count of three. On _three,_ we all hurled our frags around the corner and into the midst of the Covies.

The blasts tore the Brute to pieces, along with many of his subordinates. The rest were easily mopped up by the Spartan.

Barely stopping to exchange a slight nod with us, Sierra-117 sprinted through the doors and into the next chamber. Even as I stepped through the door, there was an almighty, blinding explosion of plasma from the room, and the charred remains of a jackal's body smacked right into me, knocking me back to my feet again.

There had been a large pile of plasma batteries in that room; that's the only explanation I could think of for such an explosion. The Chief must've shot it and set it all off, killing any of the Covies in this room quickly.

Celt and the marine helped me back to my feet. I realized that I'd lost my magnum when I'd fallen, and I had no time to find it. I turned and headed back into the first chamber, picking up one of the dead jackals' carbines, making sure it was fully loaded before joining my comrades once more.

This next chamber was divided in two. The lower half had been cleansed of life when the Master Chief blew up all the plasma batteries. On the far side of the room, there was a hallway ramp that led up to the upper tier of this chamber. I looked to the right and saw the Chief emerge into the upper half of the room, guns blazing. A Brute captain was up there, along with yet another group of subordinates.

"Move it up, let's go!" I yelled, sprinting across the chamber and into the hallway ramp. The four of us pounded up the ramp and through the doorway just in time to see the Chief snapping the neck of the Brute captain.

We leveled our weapons and set about wasting the remaining grunts, who dropped their weapons, flung their paws in the air, and ran around in circles, gibbering in terror. They feared for their lives…and rightly so. We gave that fear just cause.

While my comrades continued finishing the job, I gestured for the Spartan to go on ahead. I saw that beyond this room was a giant elevator shaft which would no doubt lead straight to the place where this tower could be shut down. If anyone could do it, it would be the Chief.

"Go on, sir!" I shouted to him. "Tower controls should be up top!"

The Spartan turned and headed onto the elevator, punching the controls. The floor on which he stood shuddered for a moment, then began to ascend the beam of light that extended far up and out of sight.

I turned back to find a chamber devoid of all life, save for my own and those of Celt, Apache, and the marine. I lowered my carbine and allowed myself a quick stretch. I only stretched my arms and legs, though. I did not want to meddle with my strained back.

Barely a minute had gone by when I started hearing the sound of more Covies approaching through the door of the lower half of this chamber. We headed out onto the walkway connecting the upper half of the chamber to the elevator shaft—the walkway happened to overlook the entrance chamber, where we could see another Covie force pouring in through the entrance doors.

"The Brutes send reinforcements to stop us," the marine kind of stated the obvious, I guess, but he was young. I decided to spare him my sarcasm for the time being.

Celt, however, wasn't so kind. "Anythin' _else_ ye'd like ta be tellin' me that I don't already fecking see, gobshite?"

The marine was unfazed by the Irishman, though. "It just figures…" he muttered. "We clear 'em all out, and then they come again…right when we lose our big guns," his gaze flickered over at the now-empty elevator shaft.

I gave a low chuckle at that. "We have only lost _one_ big gun," I corrected the regular. "Those Covies are about to run into the other three. Feel free to grow a replacement set of balls if you'd like the Covies to run into _four_ big guns, instead of just those three."


	98. VII Chapter 98: Nearly There

Chapter Ninety-Eight: Nearly There

**December 4, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "The Ark", Intergalactic Space**

"_Duck!_" Apache shouted, hurling himself to the floor. We all did likewise, just in time to avoid the withering barrage of fuel rod bolts that came crackling our way. I crawled up to the edge of the walkway overlooking the entrance chamber.

"These guys just don't quit, do they?" the marine exclaimed, slapping a fresh magazine into his assault rifle.

"They aren't paid to quit," I muttered, firing the last vestiges of ammunition left in the Covie carbine I'd taken off a dead jackal. I cast the useless weapon aside and pulled out my magnum, emptying the rest of my current clip into a berserking Brute major.

"What the feck is he doin' up there?" Celt growled, shifting to a new firing position, glancing back at the empty elevator shaft. "It's been nearly ten minutes!"

Celt had a point. It _had_ been nearly ten minutes since the Master Chief took the elevator up to the top of the tower. I mean, I'd been ready to hold down the fort for him, and everything…but ten minutes? Get a goddamn move on!

The Chief's timing was perfect. Just as a Brute chieftain barreled into the chamber, gravity hammer at the ready, I heard the elevator finally drop down from above, followed by rapid, metallic footfalls. By the time I'd turned to face the elevator, the Chief was already sprinting onto the walkway and leaping down into the chamber below.

The Spartan charged right through the Brutes' weaponsfire, his shields soaking up all the damage. I straightened up and ordered my comrades to cease fire. I led them off the walkway and into the two-tiered chamber, down the ramp, and through the door back into the entrance chamber.

When we jogged back into the entrance chamber, the only Covies left alive were a handful of fleeing grunts, which we mopped up in short order. We headed outside through the entryway, back into the cave. Surprisingly enough, our vehicles from before were still intact. The Covie reinforcements had blown right past them.

No complaints, here. We mounted up in the same vehicles as before—the three of us Helljumpers in the warthog, and the Chief on the mongoose, along with the marine. Apache started the engine and pounded the accelerator, sending us spinning out of the cave and into the valley.

I looked up as we headed onto the path that led back to the beach. The bright beam of energy that had once pulsed from the top of the tower, giving substance to the rest of the energy shield, was now gone. I craned my neck just enough to see that the second tower had been darkened, as well.

The energy shield was still up and running, though…so that meant the third tower must still be active. The third team must not have been successful. That was an extremely light and sugarcoated way of saying that they were all fucked, and that _we_ were all fucked, as well, unless we took down that tower, and fast.

Apache kept a white-knuckled grip on the wheel as we sped our way back to the beach. We were going downhill, this time, so it didn't take quite as long to get back. Had we gone any faster, I think we might've broken the sound barrier.

The regulars that had come to back us up after the destruction of the AA wraith were all right where we left them…along with a few new additions. Two hornet gunships sat near the surf, waiting for use.

I took one look at tiny seats that could be used to hold onto the gunship by passengers and immediately made up my mind. There was no way in _hell_ I'd ever go up into the air in one of those.

Turned out that I didn't have to. The Master Chief climbed into one of the gunships. Two marines hopped onto the gunship's sides, and the hornet took off, gaining altitude as it swept out over the ocean, heading along the coastline and over the sea cliffs towards the third tower.

Two more marines hopped onto the second hornet, which quickly followed suit. They headed off after Commander Keyes's pelican, trading fire with the sizeable force of Covenant banshees that stood in their way.

"So…we just have to wait here, I guess?" one of the marines asked.

"Nothing else to do," Apache shrugged. He settled for shrugging off his chestpiece, exposing the raw, third-degree burns underneath. His undershirt had been fused to his flesh as a result of getting blasted by a shade turret back at the entrance of the first tower. Our medic pulled a morphine syrette—yes, we still used morphine—from his belt and injected himself, closing his eyes as the pain of his wound lessened. He then bandaged the wound up and put his chestpiece back on.

I sat cross-legged on the beach, waiting patiently for more transportation to arrive. It didn't feel right…this could possibly the last battle in the entire war, and I had nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs. I didn't like it.

I watched our aerial force's progress as they plowed into the Covie air defenses around the cove that the second tower was located next to. A pair of Elite phantoms joined the fray and began pushing the Loyalists back. After that, our forces vanished around the far side of the cove, towards the third tower. I gave up trying to see what was going on.

It was another five or so minutes until Commander Keyes's pelican returned to the beach, allowing the rest of us to load up. I stood at the edge of the troop bay as we lifted off, leaving the beachhead far behind.

I looked up to the skies as we headed to the third tower, gazing at the _Shadow of Intent_—the Elites' assault carrier. It was one of the only ships left here; the Elite Fleetmaster had ordered the remainder of his fleet back to Earth, as had Commander Keyes. To my knowledge, only the _Forward Unto Dawn_ remained on the Ark at its LZ near the Cartographer, and the _Aegis Fate,_ which was still stationed at Sandtrap.

It was also kind of disorienting to look at the horizon and see the rest of the world you were currently standing on. The great, concave arms of the Ark rose out of the clouds and distant haze of the horizons. I could see them in almost every direction I looked—we were very close to the Ark's core, so the arms would be on all sides of us.

It had been different at Sandtrap and the Cartographer, which were both located much further up one of the Installation's larger 'cardinal' arms. From there, I could see the rest of the arm just barely broaching the horizon, and then I could see the rest of the Installation in its entirety by looking in the opposite direction.

I'd been subjected to the same effect on Halo, where if you looked straight up into the sky you'd see the rest of the ring world arcing over your very head. But the Ark was much larger than Halo, and its shape was much more complex than a simple ring.

There were burnt-out husks of wraiths littering the ledge on the edge of the sea cliffs that the third tower occupied, destroyed by our hornet gunships and the Separatist phantoms.

Another pelican was coming in for a landing on the ground to the left of the tower, dropping off a scorpion tank. The tank rumbled past the tower and joined the Gauss warthog and mongoose already present.

I hopped out of the pelican once we were close enough to the ground, raising my magnum and sweeping my gaze once over the tower. The outside was deserted. The ramps leading up to the entrance, however, were covered with the corpses of the Brutes that had once defended them. All of the Brutes—the ones still in one piece, anyway—had been filled so full of holes, they were still hard to recognize.

Note to self: hornet gunship beats Brute.

There were two ways onto the ramps—one smaller ramp on our side of the tower, and another identical one on the far side; both leading up onto the tower proper. The ramp running from the very base of the tower up to the actual entrance was very wide; about halfway up, it was split into two smaller ramps by a thin wall running straight down the middle.

It was possible to walk on top of that wall if you walked up to the top of the ramp and came around. The top of the wall was an extension of the floor at the level of the entrance, forming an elongated 'T' of sorts. I headed up the ramps and onto this wall, picking my way through the Brute corpses, heading all the way down to the end of the walkway.

The view up here was breathtaking. I could see the amber light of the receding artificial sun reflected off the waters of the ocean, spread out beneath me like a watery carpet. The soft breeze brought the smell of the sea up to my lofty pinnacle. The only thing that was missing was wildlife. There were no fish or sea creatures playing in the distance, no gulls swooping into the waves, no birdsong…

I heard Apache come up next to me from behind, gazing out at the Ark's equivalent to a sunset alongside me.

"Not a bad view for a dead world, don't you think?" I remarked.

"It's not a dead world," Apache shook his head slowly in disagreement. "It's just a quiet world. But you're right; it definitely isn't a bad view."

I guess he was right. Technically, the Ark _did_ have life if you counted the grass trees, and other plantlife. But still…having only flora and no fauna could only go so far, in my book.

While the other marines made sure they were ready to go, a good number of them took up positions at the base of the tower. Honestly, if Covie reinforcements showed up out of the blue and dropped more Brutes on our heads, I don't know how much we'd really be able to hurt them. This was an uncomfortably exposed position for marines to be in.

Apache and I continued to watch as the daylight grew deeper and deeper orange, heralding the end of the 'day'. I lost track of time, so I have no idea how long we were standing there when the third tower's beam of light suddenly winked out. There was a low noise that sounded almost like a synthetic sigh as the entire wall of energy in this area vanished.

The ground rumbled ever so slightly as the Elite assault carrier hovering in the sky engaged its engines and started to glide forward, its energy projector beginning to warm up.

I couldn't see the Citadel from this location, but I knew it was on the other side of the mountains the towers were built into.

"Oo-hoo, Mister Prophet is fucked, now," I actually giggled as I watched the assault carrier glide forward.

"I guess we can all relax, soon," Apache breathed a sigh of relief, watching the Elite vessel sail overhead. "No galaxy-wide destruction for today."

"Is that was this place does?" I arched an eyebrow. "You know, I'd really like to know more about the people who built these places…particularly why they seemed to have such hard-ons for Doomsday Devices."

"You and me both," Apache chuckled. "The Commander mentioned those Halo rings scattered throughout the galaxy, how if you activated one of them it would trigger a chain reaction that would kill everything in the Milky Way. Well, _this_ place, if the rumors I heard back in Sandtrap are true, apparently is able to remote activate _all_ of the rings…at the same time."

I gave a low whistle at that. "Hell of a bullet we just dodged, then, eh?"

"Yeah, you could say…could say that…" Apache's voice trailed off. I glanced at him and saw that he was staring off into space.

I turned back around to face the sea once more and nearly fainted. A gigantic slipspace rupture had appeared high up in the sky, and from it…a fucking planet emerged.

Well, maybe calling it a 'planet' goes a little too far; it was moon-sized at best…so I'll correct myself. From that slipspace rupture emerged…a moon. A _moon_.

I…uh…I don't even… I don't even know what to…

A fucking _moon_.

"Apache?" I tried to keep my voice calm.

"Yeah, Scar?"

"There's a moon coming out of that slipspace rupture."

"I see it, Scar."

It was huge, shadowy, and just…well, it was a fucking _moon_. Oh, and it was heading straight towards the ground. It wouldn't crash on us, thank Christ, but it would definitely be hitting the dirt somewhere nearby…

As it passed by overhead, I could see that it was no ordinary moon. It almost looked like someone had taken a planetoid and sliced it in half. The resulting hemisphere formed the top of the falling object—the bottom half of the moon comprised of a giant metallic 'stalk'; it was very thick where it connected with the hemisphere, and it tapered off to a point. The stalk comprised of thousands upon thousands of smaller branches—likely docking stations and service ports.

It was shaped like a giant mushroom, basically.

"That's no moon…it's a fucking space station," Apache observed as he saw the rest of the object pass by overhead, again surprising me with the profanity. "_Was_ a fucking space station…"

Okay, putting the oddness of having what turned out to be the Covenant holy city of High Charity—only reason I knew about High Charity in the first place was because I've been up to my scalp in ONI's secrets for nearly fifteen years—crashing our little party aside…it was painfully clear, once I got a good look at the falling planet-city-station-thing, that something was terribly wrong.

It left a dark cloud of smoke and…something else…in its wake as it fell from the sky. With a jolt, I realized that I'd seen such a display before, albeit on a much, _much_ smaller scale. I'd seen similar residue frothing out of the Flood-infested battecruiser that had slipped into Earth's atmosphere over Voi, just after the assault on the Artifact.

The Flood had infected and inhabited the entire city-planet. I watched in horror as a large chunk of debris, thrown free from the falling planetoid, punched right through the _Shadow of Intent's_ hull, coming out the other side and slamming into the mountains.

The Elites' assault carrier listed heavily to one side. For a few moments, I was afraid that the _Shadow of Intent_ was going to crash as well, but the Elites managed to regain control and stabilize their vessel. However, judging from the fact that it now started to pull away from the Citadel and back over the ocean, it was safe to assume that its weapons had been damaged.

My heart sank as I realized that the Citadel would have to be stormed. Without the _Shadow of Intent_ at operational status, there was no way to destroy the Citadel from a distance. The _Aegis Fate_ and _Forward Unto Dawn_ might have been able to do the job, but the higher-ups clearly did not want to risk exposure to the Flood. Unlike the damaged _Shadow of Intent,_ our ships did not have energy shields to protect them.

And if things weren't bad enough already, they were about to get much worse. A large Flood dispersal pod was flung free of the falling planetoid just before it sailed over the mountains and out of sight. It broke apart in midair, and a large chunk crashed right into the top of this tower.

Another portion thudded down to the ground _next_ to the tower—thankfully, not the side that our rally point was located on. Almost immediately, I heard the howl of Flood pure forms. I grabbed my weapons and, without a moment's hesitation, sprinted back towards the ramp, dragging Apache with me.

I swore some of the blackest oaths I could come up with—the Flood would have a fucking picnic with all the Brute corpses lying around here. Luckily, there seemed to be a limited amount of infection forms…but that still didn't make things much easier.

"Fall back! Everyone fall back!" I ordered as I jogged down the ramp. I was lucky that some of the marines present had also been at Voi when the Flood attacked; they knew what we were up against, as well as how to combat it. "Clump up tight and watch each others' backs! Don't let the little ones touch you!"

"_Form up around me, and I'll keep the larger ones off your asses!_" I recognized the voice of Gunnery Sergeant Harry Irons, the scorpion driver I'd been paired with during the push to the Cartographer. I eyed the lone scorpion down on the ledge and knew that the steely-eyed tank commander was in there.

Apache and I made it down to the ground level at about the same time as the Flood. All the other marines that had been walking around the tower had made it to the rally point by the scorpion, already. Once we cleared the tower, Irons was free to open fire.

A marine climbed onto the back of the warthog and turned its Gauss cannon on the oncoming tide of Flood, blowing dozens of infection forms to pieces. I'd never say that it was easy fighting the Flood, but I would definitely admit that it was eas_ier_ fighting them with vehicles…as opposed to fighting them with nothing but small arms, which is all I'd had to work with during my past two encounters with the Parasite.

Sergeant Irons fired the main cannon of his scorpion tank whenever one of the giant, hulking tank forms appeared. All of them attempted to charge us, but ninety millimeters of HE tungsten shells permanently discouraged them from trying. The marines—my squadmates included—concentrated on taking out the infection forms.

As for the combat forms…the task of taking the dozens of reanimated Brutes out fell to the marine manning the Gauss cannon, and myself. I'd climbed onto the scorpion and hopped into the gunner's nest, racking the bolt of the fifty-cal machinegun and turning it on the Flood, targeting the combat forms.

The best way to take a combat form down was by killing the infection form lodged in its chest cavity. However, if you had a heavy fifty at your command, it was quite possible to reduce the entire combat form itself to sludge. Whatever the Flood form did to the corpse to turn it into its meatsuit, it weakened the body's overall structure, allowing heavier-caliber weapons to effectively rip it apart.

Even if by some miracle the infection form wasn't hit, there was quite simply nothing left for it to control, and it would skitter away until it met its death at the hands of one of the marines.

Finally, mercifully, the tide of Flood began to lessen until all that remained were a few dozen or so infection forms. As we started focusing our attention on them, plasmafire raced down from above and seared into the swarms of crawlers, wiping many of them out.

I looked up and saw the Master Chief sprinting down the ramp. There was a tall Elite clad in ornate, ancient-looking armor running right beside him, as well as another five or so Elites—one red-armored major and the rest blue-armored minors—bringing up the rear.

They reached the base of the tower, and the Elites took their leave, filing down to the ground to take up positions alongside us. The Chief clasped arms with the tall Elite as one of the green Separatist phantoms descended from the sky to pick him up.

I turned to look behind us, glancing briefly at the tunnel cut into the mountainside next to the third tower. A natural path ran through there and into the labyrinthine cliffs beyond. That was the way to the Citadel.

"Alright, boys! Find a seat and mount up!" I bellowed. Apache took the wheel of the warthog, and Celt took the passenger seat. He had originally moved to take the turret, but the Master Chief climbed into the gunner's nest before him.

Four of the marines climbed onto the treads of Irons's scorpion, and another two climbed onto the mongoose. "_Move out!_" I shouted.

Sergeant Irons sent his scorpion rumbling forward. The other vehicles could have gone much faster, but they stayed level with us. Once we encountered resistance, they'd probably go do their own thing, but for now it was best to stay in a group.

We also got moving before the marines had a chance to process what the fuck had just happened with the Flood. The less the men and women were thinking on that, the better. Hell, I've already fought them twice, and _I_ didn't want to think about it.

But if there was a silver lining—and I run the risk of sounding like an optimist, here—it was that High Charity had arrived less than a day after us. That meant that when it reached Earth, it hadn't lingered, so there was a chance that they hadn't attacked the planet itself.

I mean, sure, they always could have blanketed the globe with those dispersal pods…let's not get too optimistic, here. But it was now a certainty that the Flood had not attacked Earth with the full might of their forces on the Covenant holy city.

But when I really started to think about it—you'd think I had more important things to worry about right now, but whatever—I knew deep down that the Flood didn't leave anything on Earth. They'd sent that advance force, perhaps, to prevent the Artifact from being activated.

Failing that, the Flood hive mind would then arrive at Earth, find the Covenant gone and the Portal activated, and it would know that the Prophet of Truth intended to activate the Ark. If that happened, the Halo rings would fire, and all life in the galaxy would go bye-bye.

The massive cons of galaxy-wide death and destruction aside, the Flood had good reason not to want the Halos to fire. If all the sentient life in the galaxy were to die…then what would the Flood have left to infect?

No, I think the Flood hive mind would not waste any of its forces by sending them down to Earth. Stopping the Ark from firing would be priority; once that was done, the Flood could return and infect Earth at leisure.

Then a chilling thought began to worm its way into my mind. The UNSC has encountered two Halo rings in the past few months…and Flood have been on both of them. The Flood seemed to be contained on installations built by this mysterious race of ancients. How had they gotten there?

The builders of the Halo rings had to have put them there…and the only way they could have done _that_ is if they were in conflict with the Flood. I considered Halo's purpose, and I started to wonder if its builders had died out naturally...or if they'd been wiped out by a more artificial means.

I was yanked from these disturbing thoughts by Harry Irons firing the main cannon. The shell streaked ahead and slammed into a Covenant assault tower that had been set up along a curve in the mountain path.

Plasma cannons erupted from the assault tower, and a Brute prowler whipped around the next curve, its own turret blazing. Several of the Brutes wielded fuel rod guns, as well, adding to the chaos.

The four marines on the treads hopped off and took cover behind the tank. Irons finished off the assault tower while I opened fire on the prowler.

A fuel rod shot slammed into the front-left tread. Luckily, the tread itself had only been lightly damaged, but the armor protecting it was all but gone. Irons shifted his aim and shot a canister round into the Brutes stationed around the assault tower. The round tore three of them to ribbons and wounded several more.

Apache drove the warthog in from the side and ended up pulping several of those wounded Brutes, as well.

Sergeant Irons finished off the assault tower. It blew up around the same time as the prowler, on which I'd been keeping up a steady stream of fire, joined by the warthog's Gauss cannon. The Brute vehicle brewed up in flames, hurling its operators free.

I mopped up the survivors with my turret before we proceeded.

Thus far, the path through the hills had been running through a narrow gorge—on both sides of the path, sheer rock walls extended hundreds of feet into the sky. But around the next curve, the path ducked into another tunnel that led through the hill in front of us. We made our way into this tunnel and emerged from the other side into another valley—easily as big as the one the Cartographer had been located in, maybe even a little bigger.

To the right, I could see the three towers perched upon the rim of the mountains, and to the left…I could see the Citadel itself. It was a magnificent, angular structure, secured to the valley floor far below and extending well out over the abyss that was beyond the valley itself.

The sky beyond the Citadel was a deep, golden amber and filled with hazy clouds. The stripped remnant of a planet that I'd seen in the centre of the Ark's core from space was also visible, though I could only see the upper third from this vantage point.

A pair of banshees flew past as we emerged through the tunnel and onto the series of ledges that ran around the inner perimeter of the valley before descending to join the valley floor. The Covies were also waiting on the other side with a shade turret and another assault tower.

Irons felled the assault tower with another two shots while the Chief used the Gauss cannon to take out the shade turret. But we weren't out of the woods, yet; a pair of ghosts whizzed around the next curve, their frontal cannons ablaze. Irons, however, still had a few tricks left up his sleeve.

The scorpion driver fired a shot into the ground right in front of the ghosts. The concussive effects of the explosion flipped the ghosts up into the air, throwing the grunt drivers free. I killed the two grunts, and moved to destroy the unmanned ghosts, but Irons stopped me.

"_Let the split-chins take 'em,_" the tank commander said to me over the COM.

The Elites had been following us on foot since the third tower. It wasn't hard for a Human to keep up with a scorpion tank moving at a cautious speed, so it was a piece of cake for the split-chins. Sure enough, two of the Elite minors jogged on ahead and flipped those ghosts over, climbing in and taking the vehicles for themselves.

We pressed on until we reached a U-shaped curve in the path. We had to go around to the right and hug the mountainside—there was deep ravine extended from the valley floor separating us from the other side.

I could see another assault tower waiting on the other side, as well as a Brute prowler speeding along its side of the 'U', making for the bend.

The Master Chief starting opening fire at the assault tower, and the prowler's gunner started peppering Irons's tank with plasmafire.

"_Hang onto something, Garris!_" Irons bellowed. "_We're rushing this son of a fuck!_"

The scorpion driver punched the engines, giving the tank an unexpected burst of speed. Scorpions really were capable of great speed…the reason we'd been going slowly here was because the terrain wasn't exactly favorable for high speeds. But Irons ignored that, now.

We rumbled straight down our side of the 'U' and nearly skidding the entire way around the bend. Irons fired an armor-piercing round right into the side of the likewise-charging prowler as we both neared the bend, and once wee were actually skidding around, the scorpion driver actually turned _toward_ the drop. The front of our tank rammed the prowler as it passed by, sending it tumbling over the edge.

Gunnery Sergeant Irons howled with laughter as he slowed us down and we proceeded to the other side of the bend in the path. There were two ways to go from here—there was a higher path that ran behind the knoll which the assault tower was mounted on, and there was a lower path that curved around in front of it. On the lower path, it was also possible to go through a short, natural tunnel _under_ the knoll instead of all the way around it.

Irons took us onto the upper path, not bothering to fire on the assault tower. By then, the Chief had taken it the rest of the way down. The Chief then focused his fire on the ghost that had been hiding in that cave-like tunnel, under the assault tower's mount.

A second prowler whipped around the lower path, screaming straight for our warthog, but one of the Elites on the ghosts sprang to action. It gunned the engines of its ghost and gave a raw-throated howl, its mandibles splayed wide. As it neared the charging prowler, it actually _stood up_ in its seat. It grabbed hold of the controls with one hand and leaned far to the side…and then sat back down once it had passed the prowler.

It had all happened so fast. I didn't see the Elite take out or prime the plasma grenade it had stuck to the prowler, but I _did_ see the blazing blue orb, stuck right in front of the driver's seat, just before it detonated.

A single plasma grenade wouldn't have been enough to destroy the prowler, but it _had_ been enough to blast it over the edge of the precipice, where it plummeted all the way down to the valley floor below.

The lower path and the upper path reunited just as the way to the valley started sloping downward. At the bottom of the decline, the path widened out into a medium-sized ledge; almost like a landing in a staircase. There was another knoll with an assault tower mounted on top, and a wraith tank waiting at the point where the path widened into the ledge.

A barrage of fuel rod shots started crackling towards us, fired from the assault tower, prompting Irons to swerve to the side. One of those fuel rod shots struck our mongoose, blasting it to pieces and instantly killing the two marines riding it.

We found ourselves in a pretty tight spot. To continue forward sent us towards the wraith, but concentrating fire on the wraith would leave the Covies on the assault tower free to bombard us with fuel rod shots. Retreat was also not a very viable option, at the moment.

Ultimately, Irons decided to concentrate fire on the wraith. Apache drove the warthog around us and took it up to its full speed, kicking up dirt and mud as it went. It sped right across the wraith's line of fire and screeched to a halt next to the assault tower.

Irons hit the wraith again, blowing large chunks of its armor away. Back at the assault tower, the Chief had leaped out of the warthog and into the tower's grav-lift, which took him straight up to the top. He proceeded to dispatch the remaining Covies with the fuel rod guns, and then emptied one of the Covenant heavy weapons into the back of the wraith.

Irons sank a final shot into the ailing wraith just as the barrage of fuel rod shits struck it from behind, and the tank vanished in a blinding explosion of green and white. When the light subsided, all that was left were tiny little pieces.

With the wraith out of the way and the assault tower neutralized, we now owned the path down to the valley floor.

We were about to get some air support, too. We made our way past this ledge and onto the final stretch of the path before it curved down around and joined with the valley floor. We stopped here to regroup while two hornets descended from the sky and landed right next to us.

A moment later, a pair of scarabs were dropped into the valley from above. Icing on the proverbial cake, if I do say so myself. We'd have to take those behemoths down before we could even _think_ of storming the Citadel.

The Master Chief jumped out of the warthog and took one of the hornet gunships, taking off immediately. The other gunship followed suit—the Spartan was the only real reason they'd landed here in the first place.

Gunnery Sergeant Irons sent us barreling forward. We headed down the rest of the mountain path, zooming down the final hill and onto the valley floor. There were a small number of ghosts roving around the scarabs' legs, but our Elite friends weren't too far behind. They handled the grunts driving the ghosts with ease.

I saw that these scarabs were of a different variant than the kind the Covies had sent to Kiev. They were a bit smaller, and much more angular and insectoid in appearance. These were the kind that did not require Covie drivers—they were piloted by a colony of those weird worm things that Hunters were made out of. Each one had a pack of Brutes for a crew—they stood on the top decks, howling insults down at us. I watched the Master Chief land his hornet on the deck of one of the scarabs, but he didn't engage the Brutes.

Even as they shot at him, the Spartan ducked down into the depths of the behemoth, no doubt heading for the reactor located in the rear of the scarab.

I told Irons to focus on the other scarab. I repressed the urge to tell the scorpion driver to shoot out one of its legs—Irons was nearly as old as I was; he knew what he was doing.

And this was how it went for the next minute or so. While the first scarab detonated in a brilliant haze of blue and white flame, Sergeant Irons expertly weaved his scorpion in and out of the scarab's legs, constantly dodging plasmafire from its nose cannon and plasma turret.

He focused on the scarab's right hind leg, sending shell after shell into the knee joint. After every hit, more and more armor fell away. Eventually, the second hornet gunship swooped in and slammed the scarab's stricken leg with a pair of missiles. The scarab suddenly stopped moving. Its green lights began to flash, and its legs folded in on themselves, lowering the behemoth's chassis down towards the ground.

I could barely see the scarab's reactor as Irons circled around to the rear of the behemoth. He sank a shell into the armor protecting it, but it only made a dent. He wasn't going to be fast enough.

"It'll take too long!" I shouted to him, climbing out of the gunner's nest. "Get back to a safe distance!"

Before Irons could ask why the fuck I was trying to get myself killed, I jumped off the scorpion and sprinted the short distance to the scarab's open aft entrance. I leaped up and grasped the edge with my arms, heaving myself up and over the lip.

I could hear Brutes tramping down the ramps towards my position, so I had to work fast. I glanced at the energy shield protecting reactor and hefted my sniper rifle. I slammed the butt of the rifle into the shield five times—the shield turned redder and redder with each hit until it finally collapsed from the fifth blow.

I slung my rifle over my back, turned, and ran. As I ran back outside, I ripped my last two frag grenades free, primed them, and hurled them behind me. They clanked and bounced off the floor and rolled to arrest right under the scarab's reactor.

The grenades detonated, blowing a gaping hole in the reactor. The blinking blue light that had been set into the center of the reactor now started pulsing an angry red. The entire scarab started to shake and groan, and small gouts of plasma began exploding out of its hull.

I reached the edge of the scarab's rear end and leaped into the air, landing on my feet. I landed on my feet, but still fell forward and rolled several yards, grunting in pain as my pulled back was agitated. I was still able to pick myself back up and start running my ass off.

I knew from firsthand experience that exploding scarabs were _not_ something you wanted to be close to.

I managed to put some good distance between myself and the scarab, but even so…when the behemoth finally exploded in a conflagration of blue-white light and fire, I was still blown off my feet and hurled at least twenty meters forward through the air before slamming into a boulder and bouncing off, landing—once again—on my back.

I felt at least three ribs crack from the impact, but it was nothing major. Well worth a scarab, in my opinion.

"_Both scarabs down_. _Well done,_" Commander Keyes broadcasted over the general COM. "_Marines, kill the stragglers_."

As we set about destroying the last handful of ghosts and banshees in the area, the Separatist phantom from earlier soared over the mountaintops and came in for a landing. The tall Elite in the ancient-looking armor jumped down onto the top of a platform erected towards the middle of the valley that followed the same angle as the Citadel itself. A shimmering energy bridge stretched from the top of that platform and into the Citadel. It appeared to be the entrance.

Commander Keyes ordered us to await extraction. It looked like the Chief was going to be storming the Citadel with the tall Elite, but we were off the hook.

Hey, I wasn't complaining. If all of us had been sent in there, I'd be willing to wager the Chief and that Elite would have been the only survivors, anyway. Still, though…the stakes of that last push were probably the highest stakes there have ever been.

An entire galaxy full of life hung in the balance.

I watched the two armored figures—Human and Elite—sprint across the energy bridge, accompanied by a strange, floating metallic ball that emanated a soft blue glow. Questions formed in my mind, but I dismissed them. They were irrelevant.

A pair of pelicans swooped in from above and picked up the scorpion—and Irons along with it—and the Gauss warthog. One of them was already full of marines, so we let the regulars that had fought with us board the second pelican.

The pilots told us that Sandtrap had been cleared out and the _Aegis Fate_ had been sent back to Earth half an hour ago, along with a good portion of the forces that had attacked the Cartographer. All of our forces currently left on the Ark—UNSC and Covenant Separatist—were being withdrawn to the _Shadow of Intent_ for immediate evacuation right this moment.

The Flood infestation seemed to be getting somewhat out of hand in other parts of the Ark. The only reason the Elites' assault carrier was remaining was because it was protected by energy shields. But still…no use in tempting fate. Better to get the hell out of here while the going was good.

We'd done all we could, now. It was all in the hands of the supersoldiers, loath as I was to admit it.

The Separatist phantom picked up the handful of Elites that had accompanied us from the third tower. It then picked up Celt, Apache, and me…completing our withdrawal from the Citadel.

I stood next to one of the plasma cannons mounted on the edge of the phantom's troop bay, in one of the side openings, watching the Citadel grow smaller and smaller. We soared out over the core of the Ark, over the carpet of amber-gold clouds. In the distance loomed the black dome of the stripped planetoid in the centre of the void.

As we headed further up into the sky, we all heard a mighty rumble. The phantom even wobbled slightly. The pilot slowed us down and turned, trying to find out the source of the disturbance. We saw none, until the Elite major pointed downwards, exclaiming something in its native tongue.

I looked down as well, and I went slack-jawed. All I could do was stare and ogle like a slobbering idiot as I watched a massive wall of metal slowly rise out of the clouds.

What was so special about this wall, you ask? Well, it wasn't complete—that much was obvious just by looking at it. But it was more than just a wall. It was curved in appearance…and it was as large as the Ark's core.

A massive ringworld.

Another Halo.

Celt clicked his tongue, watching the Halo ring rise out of the clouds in front of us. "Well that ain't somethin' ye see every day, now, is it?"


	99. VII Chapter 99: Homeward Bound

Chapter Ninety-Nine: Homeward Bound

**December 4, 2552 (Military Calendar) \  
Alien Construct "The Ark", Intergalactic Space**

I watched the unfinished Halo ring ascending from the clouds of the Ark's core and into the sky.

The Elites were likewise enraptured by the megastructure's sudden appearance and ascent, as were my two surviving squadmates. The pilot engaged the phantom's thrusters once more, closed the dropship's side openings, and sealed the floor hatch. This rendered the phantom airtight and spaceworthy.

I settled for sitting on one of the seats lining the bulkheads with my squadmates, resting back against the wall. We remained like this for about ten or so minutes. I glanced through the viewports as the sky gradually gave way to the black of outer space.

It was different this time, though. I was used to seeing space that was choc-full of stars. But this was intergalactic space…there were no stars out here. All I could see through the viewports was pure black void.

I suppose space out here wasn't _completely_ empty. Our galaxy was clearly visible—not exactly _nearby,_ but much larger and closer than the hundreds of other hazy shapes in the far distance.

The _Shadow of Intent_ was holding position in low orbit around the Ark's core. The assault carrier's giant hangar bay was protected from the vacuum of space by the energy shields and a failsafe force field. I'm sure it was fully sealable, but the Elites seemed to be keeping it open for us—we seemed to be the last of the UNSC-Separatist forces to board.

General Eckhart and the rest of our forces were also in the hangar bay, newly arrived, along with the Separatist forces. Our phantom landed near the hangar bay entrance and powered down. I hopped out of the dropship, along with my squadmates.

I removed my helmet, breathing in the fresh recycled—_fresh recycled?_—air. Our medics and corpsmen had set up a makeshift field hospital in the middle of the _Shadow of Intent's_ hangar bay. All it really comprised of were a dozen or so pelican dropships—the wounded marines were all on board the dropships, ready for immediate transport to a more suitable facility upon our return to Earth.

_Return to Earth_… I pondered the thought for a moment. Even before we'd docked at the _Shadow of Intent,_ General Eckhart had sent out a general transmission to all UNSC forces on the ship, informing us that the Master Chief and the Arbiter—whom I'm assuming was that tall Elite in the ornate armor—had been successful in stopping the Ark's activation.

The Prophet of Truth and all of his top cronies were dead. The war with the Covenant was…over. Just the mere thought was staggering. I couldn't quite grasp the simultaneous enormity and simplicity of it.

That left the threat of the Flood…but I later learned that the Chief and the Arbiter were going to light that unfinished Halo ring, which would cleanse all of the Flood that had traveled here on High Charity, kill the hive mind, and secure the survival of Earth.

And I was still alive. I didn't know if I should be grateful, or bitter. This was typical of Fate; killing thousands, millions of other people who were full of life and had bright futures ahead of them…and sparing someone like me. Someone whose entire life had been this goddamn war. Someone who'd been part of the military so long, he didn't know how to do anything else.

I had nothing to offer society. What the fuck was I going to do with myself? Why the fuck am I still alive?

Nearly sixty thousand ground forces had been stationed on Reach during its fall, and only a couple thousand escaped. Of course, I'd been one of them. Nearly a thousand of those survivors had ended up on Halo, and less than a dozen made it back home. Once again, I managed to be a part of that select group. The odds of my not surviving these past few months alone were ridiculously high—let alone the odds of not surviving all twenty-eight years of the war.

And yet, I'd beaten those odds. Several hours ago, I'd been a veteran. Now, I was a survivor.

All of us—marines, soldiers, sailors, airmen; none of us were victors. We were all survivors, because that's all we'd really done. We may have beaten the Covenant, but only with the help of the Elites. Ultimately, we hadn't been victorious. We'd simply survived…which, in its own way, _was_ our victory.

Celt, Apache, and I went through all of the pelicans at the medical area until we found the Master Sergeant. Apparently, his wounds had been more severe than my squadmates or Commander Angiers had let on, but he was still hanging in there. Still…for the first time in all the years I'd known him, he truly looked like an old man.

He raised a hand in greeting as we approached. "Good to see all three of you still in one piece," he gave a faint grin. "Especially you, Scar. I'd had a bad feeling that your luck might run out for the final round."

"No such luck," I murmured, giving a single, low chuckle.

My squad leader shared in the laugh, unaware of the fact that I wasn't exactly joking. He tried to straighten up, but failed. The Master Sergeant settled back onto his stretcher. "I've been hearing all sorts of things from everyone, lately…but I want to hear it straight from your mouths," he looked right at us. "Is it over? The Covies…the war…is it _over?_"

"_Ta,_" Celt nodded once. "It's finished."

The Master Sergeant closed his eyes, and his faint grin grew into a full smile. "That's all I needed to hear," he said.

"Excuse me, this man needs rest," one of the medics came up from behind, herding us away. "Come back in a week."

I took a step away from the quasi-field hospital and tucked my helmet under my arm, pausing for a yawn and a quick stretch. I nearly doubled over, though, when I tried stretching my torso, agitating my pulled back and my cracked ribs—I kept forgetting I'd gotten injured there.

Just as I was straightening back up, something caught my eye. Or some_one,_ rather. Someone who I was quite surprised to see. I turned to my squadmates and told them to go on ahead. "You guys can go ahead and find Commander Angiers; I'll catch up to you in a minute."

Celt cast me an odd glance, but eventually gave a shrug. "Come on, Apache," he gestured for the Native American to follow as he walked toward the rest of our pelicans, seeking our ONI handler.

I walked off as well, but in a different direction. In the direction of a certain Elite Ultra with whom I've had a short history. I fell into step alongside the white-armored Elite warrior for several seconds before he noticed me and gave a questioning warble. That was when the Ultra saw the scar on my face that, fifteen years ago, he had put there. His three mandibles clicked in recognition.

"The Gods have a cruel sense of humor," the Elite muttered, not breaking his stride.

"They do, because you were wrong," I mused.

"Wrong?" the Ultra didn't follow.

"Yes, _wrong,_" I grinned. "Dead wrong. The last thing you said to me, before you pretty much left me to die outside that swamp, was that if we met again in the future, it would be as foes. Well…here we are. And, if those filthy rumors I've been hearing are true, we're allies, now. Not foes."

"Perhaps you Humans are not quite the vermin the Prophets made you out to be," the Ultra begrudgingly admitted. "This war has been costly to both our races, and without the Prophets' lies clouding our judgment..."

"Not exactly an apology…but still. It's a step," I gave a slight shrug. I don't think I'd ever make friends with an Elite, not after all they'd done to us…but maybe I could make some measure of peace with one. After all, they'd been targeted by the Covenant for genocide, too, if only for a month or two. "Never got your name, by the way."

"I do not give my name to strangers," the Ultra retorted.

"What a coincidence; neither do I," I said in reply. And that was true; as a member of one of ONI's secretive Spec Ops cells, my name wasn't something I gave out very often. My primary name for the past fifteen or so years had been a callsign. "And we are probably the first Human and Sangheili ever to fight alongside one another. If that's not worth giving one's name over, what is?"

The Ultra seemed to consider it, finally relenting. "'Ovarumee. My name is Iram 'Ovarumee, Second Ultra of the Dn'end Legion. Though I suppose it is merely _'Ovarum,_ now…"

"Quite a name," I remarked. I decided to reciprocate. "Gunnery Sergeant Albert Tiberius Garris, Special Warfare Group Archangel," I gave my own name and unit, extending a hand as I did so, but the Elite didn't seem to know what to do. I gave him a little prompt. "You're supposed to shake it."

The Elite grasped my hand with two of its fingers, and we performed the closest we'd ever be able to get to a real handshake. It wasn't much…but it was something. I don't really know why I even sought the Ultra out. Maybe to tie up some loose ends, I suppose…I don't really know why I do half the things I dp, anymore.

"Well then, see you in another life, Iram 'Ovarum, Second Ultra of the Denim Legion," I sketched the Elite a mock salute and started taking steps backward while the Ultra continued moving forward. The Elite, 'Ovarum, didn't look back. He continued walking until I lost him in the crowd of Elites that was milling about the hangar bay, no doubt glad to be rid of me.

I realized that I was quite literally surrounded by former Covies, right now, and I was getting my fair share of odd looks. I took my leave and circled back around, heading straight back to where the other marines had gathered.

By the time I reached our little enclave, I could feel the assault carrier's engines engaging. I watched through the closing hangar bay doors as the Ark slowly started to grow smaller until I could see the entire structure. Then the doors were sealed, and my view of the outside realms was cut off.

Then the rushing noise of a slipspace jump began to reverberate throughout the ship. I swore under my breath and gritted my teeth, bracing myself for the ordeal we'd gone through when we'd first come through the Portal.

I was pleasantly surprised, however, when the time and space distortion effects only lasted for maybe twenty seconds or so, rather than several minutes like it had on the _Aegis Fate_. Maybe it was easier using the Portal after it had warmed up, maybe it was easier taking the Portal the other way, or maybe Covenant vessels were simply able to weather the storm better than the UNSC's inferior counterparts.

Either way, the slipspace jump back to Earth was much, _much_ easier to bear than the jump to the Ark had been. I was content to be grateful for the easy transfer, not really caring about the reasons why it was so.

When the hangar bay doors were opened once more, we were greeted with the view of a brilliant, blue sky filled with cumulus clouds. In the distance, a towering gray thunderhead loomed ominously, small flashes of lightning flickering throughout its girth.

We'd already left the purple-black sphere that was the Portal far in the distance, as the _Shadow of Intent_ was still traveling rather fast. We ended up stopping not far fromNairobi, the capital ofKenya—roughly two hundred or more kilometers northwest of Voi.

The brass, I think, had been waiting for the return of those of us who went through the Portal, and had made preparations. After all, they'd had over a month to do so; we'd entered the Portal on November 22nd, and we'd come back through it today, which—if my time/date indicator was correct—was the 24th of December.

Down below, beyond the outskirts of Nairobi, the military had set up a vast sprawl of medical facilities, barracks, and all sorts of other commodities for our returning men. The marines and naval personnel who'd come back through the Portal in the battlegroup of UNSC ships were already down there, being tended to.

Now it was our turn.

"Load up!" a nearby captain was shouting. "Let's get a move on, marines! Find a pelican and hitch a ride!"

I quickly found Whiskey-142, Captain Rousseau's bird, in short order. Sure enough, I found Celt, Apache, and Commander Angiers aboard, along with several other marine regulars who were hitching a ride.

"Gunnery Sergeant," the Commander exchanged a nod with me, extending a hand. I shook it as Captain Rousseau fired up the pelican's engines and maneuvered us forward, through the mess of phantoms and seraphs, and sent us flying out the hangar bay doors and into the Terran sky.

"I don't think I'll ever feel this happy to see Earth again," Apache murmured. "Or any other planet, for that matter."

"No more artificial constructs," I declared. "No more aliens, no more secret Portals buried in our back-fucking-yards. I swear to Christ, I'm finding a house somewhere secluded, and I'm never going to leave."

Captain Rousseau took us down to the miniature military boomtown below, landing on the airstrip and bidding us farewell. I was sure to shake hands with the man; we'd been encountering each other ever since he airlifted me out of New Alexandria, after the Covies torched the place. I wouldn't forget him.

Celt took his leave and headed straight for the officer's club while Apache and I went to the nearest mobile hospital unit. It took us ten minutes to reach it on foot—seriously wounded personnel would have been transported there on wheels, obviously. We weren't quite as high a priority, though, so we were willing to wait.

Apache was eventually put on a pelican along with several other burn victims and sent into Nairobi for more suitable treatment. I knew his chest had been causing him intense pain ever since he got hit by a plasma charge during the attack on the first tower, and it would take more than a teaspoon of biofoam to make a burn like that heal.

The more severe patients were being sent south, to the UNSC military hospital in Sydney, Australia. I know the Master Sergeant was sent there, after he was cycled through the field hospitals.

As for me… Well, I'd cracked three ribs and broken a fourth. I was starting to feel intense pain pretty much every time I took a breath, so I was really looking forward to getting some help. But after the docs took a look at me, they told me that none of the afflicted ribs were 'out of place'. Because no surgery was needed, I was given painkillers and a dose of biofoam to speed up the healing process before being sent away.

I didn't even bother mentioning my pulled back. The medics and surgeons had much more pressing cases to attend to.

With nothing else to do, I headed into one of the open barracks—weapons, armor, and all—found a cot, lied down, and passed the fuck out. I'd been fighting hard all day long, and, damn it all, I needed a nap.

I woke up maybe twelve or so hours later. I rubbed my eyes blearily and stretched, heading out of the barracks and making my way over to the officer's club. I know, I wasn't an officer, but no one called me out on it. No one seemed to have called Celt out on it, either; the Irishman hadn't moved from his stool. For some reason, the officers already present didn't seem to want to antagonize people with the Helljumper tattoo on their arms.

I ordered a whiskey from the bartender and took a seat next to Celt. The Irishman tried to say something to me, but he was drunk out of his mind, so all I heard was a series of unintelligible, slurred grunts.

I took my glass, slid it over, and clinked it with the Irishman's. "Don't ever change, Celt," I chuckled as I downed the alcohol.

But Celt wasn't paying me any attention. He was staring over at a brown-haired, gray-eyed female captain who was sitting alone at one of the tables, hunched over a drink of her own. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, which was around Celt's own age. He flung his head back and downed the rest of his whiskey before excusing himself and wobbling to his feet.

"Where do you think you're going?" I asked him, signaling the bartender for another round.

"That qweer bit o' skirt sittin' o'er at yonder table's been here almost as long as _I_ have," the Irishman gestured at the female captain at the other table while managing to concentrate hard enough to speak semi-intelligibly—though the slurring of the alcohol combined with his consequentially thick Irish accent still made it hard to comprehend. The fact that he'd reverted to using the slang of his youth didn't help matter, either. "She been lookin' o'er here at me all day long, an' I been too bloody plastered ta notice 'till now, so I think it be high time I made meself known!"

I arched an eyebrow, mostly in amusement. "I understood about a fifth of that."

Celt flashed me a lopsided grin. "See you tomorrow, Scarris," he floundered somewhere in between my callsign and my real name, but decided to leave it as is. He then turned 'round and made his way over to the female captain's table.

I watched them for only a few seconds before realizing that the brown-haired, gray-eyed woman was every bit as drunk as the Irishman. Within a minute, the two of them were staggering out of the bar together.

There were still a few others in the officer's club, but no one else quite as boisterous as the Irishman had been, so I took my leave and headed back out into the compound, my head buzzing pleasantly from the alcohol.

I milled aimlessly around through the miniature town, but I really had nowhere I needed to be. It was strange…not having someplace I needed to be. For the past twenty-eight years, I've always had a mission, an objective…something I needed to do, someplace I needed to be…

No longer.

Ultimately, I returned to the officer's club and decided to get every bit as smashed as Celt had been. Maybe I'd be able to process what had happened these past few months better if I didn't even remember who I was.

What the fuck am I going to do now?

I slipped the bartender a handful of credits. "Another for the both of us," I said.

"Much obliged," the older man behind the counter thanked me, refilling my glass and grabbing one for himself.

I raised my glass to him. "Merry Christmas."


	100. VII Chapter 100: All My Relations

Chapter One Hundred: All My Relations

**March 3, 2553 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

Things were finally beginning to settle down. I really don't know how that was possible…but it was. The war had ended in December with the death of the Prophet of Truth and the destruction of the Flood, but the official cessation of hostilities was announced today.

I don't know what the fuck our leaders and the Elites' leaders were doing in that three-month interim that delayed a declaration of peace for so long, but whatever. It's not my job to ask questions.

Technically, I was still part of the military because my discharge forms were being withheld until the 4th of April. Don't ask why the 4th of April, because I don't know. I rarely ever knew the _why;_ all I knew was the _what_. And ultimately, the _what_ is all that matters.

I'd spent most of the past three months in Camp Victory, which was what we were all calling this quasi-town that the brass had set up outside of Nairobi for the survivors of the Battle of the Ark. Not the most imaginative name, I suppose...but I wouldn't have named it anything else.

There hadn't been much to do here, really. I think I spent about half of my waking hours in the officer's club. I'd only been called out in there once for not being an officer. It had been by some puissant, shavetail second looey, and I'd nearly blackened both of his eyes. Luckily, Apache had been there to restrain both me and Celt.

Celt, to his credit, had been getting drunk regularly with Captain Fleming—the gray-eyed, brown-haired woman he'd met in the officer's club the day we got back from the Ark. At first, it he had been nonchalant about the whole thing, but once he'd learned she was Scottish... Well things kind of took off from there.

But other than that, life had been extremely uneventful. My squadmates and I spent most of the time counting down the days until our discharge forms came through, making us free men.

Today, however, was a special occasion. Fleet Admiral Hood himself was flying out here straight from HIGHCOM in Sydney, Australia. There was going to be a memorial ceremony near the ruins of Voi, honoring the military personnel who had not returned from the Ark—and, by extension, commemorating all military personnel who had died in the war.

It was going to be a low-key affair. For the most part, the attendees were going to be comprised of the survivors of the Battle of the Ark—the final battle in the entire war. But it was going to be broadcasted all over the entire UNSC.

We were loaded into pelicans around noon-ish and flown from Nairobi to the site of the memorial, which wasn't far from the ruins of Voi. It was set on the very edge of the area that the Elites had glassed in order to prevent the Flood infestation from spreading.

As I disembarked from the pelican, I saw the actual Memorial at the top of a nearby hill, which was what the crowd of marines was gathered in front of. It appeared to be made out of the wing from a destroyed pelican dropship.

It had been planted into the ground so that it pointed up into the sky. There was a metal platform erected in front of the wing with a small set of stairs leading up to it—that was where people could walk up and get a closer look at the monument.

Dozens of pictures had been placed on the pelican wing—each picture an image of a marine or sailor who lost his or her life on the Ark. There were a few weapons up there as well, with helmets on top of the barrels, along with several flowers and other personal possessions.

The memorial had started at daybreak—that was when personnel were allowed to arrive and pay their respects. It was going to be concluded at sunset.

It was around mid-afternoon when I was finally able to find Celt and Apache. "Thought I'd never find you guys in this mess," I said as I stood next to them, waiting patiently for the sun to go down and the ceremony to commence.

It wasn't until the sun started brushing the western horizon that the ceremony started. Fleet Admiral Hood had been making his way through the crowd, shaking hands and giving his thanks to many of the men and women present. When it was time for the ceremony to start, a marine Gunnery Sergeant—I recognized the man as Pete Stacker, a fellow survivor of the first Halo—marched up next to the platform, along with an honor guard of seven marines armed with BR55s, and called everyone to attention.

The entire crowd fell silent. We all stood ramrod straight and waited for the memorial ceremony to begin.

Fleet Admiral Hood exchanged a nod with Gunnery Sergeant Stacker and climbed the stairs. He turned back to face us and removed his cap before speaking. "For us, the storm has passed," he began. "The war is over. But let us never forget those who journeyed into the howling dark and did not return. For their decision required courage beyond measure, sacrifice, and unshakable conviction that their fight... _our_ fight, was elsewhere. As we start to rebuild, this hillside will remain barren, a memorial to heroes fallen. They ennobled all of us, and they shall not be forgotten."

This ceremony wasn't supposed to be a huge affair. A full-blown ceremony might have had us standing here from morning until night while someone read off the names of the dead. Not that I didn't appreciate everything the dead had sacrificed…but I was grateful that this ceremony was on the shorter end of the spectrum.

I'd never liked formal affairs, like these… However, I was prepared to make today an exception. And I think the Admiral did a good job of summing everything up in a short little paragraph.

Admiral Hood placed his cap back on his head and raised his hand to his forehead in a salute. Every single marine present—including myself—did likewise, offering a salute to the Memorial.

Gunnery Sergeant Stacker called for his seven marines to present arms. They all swiveled into position and raised their BR55s to the sky in perfect unison before firing off three volleys from their rifles, completing the twenty-one gun salute.

Once that was finished, we all dropped our salutes and were dismissed.

"I wish he could have been here for this, at least," Apache sighed.

"Kind of a shitty way to go, don't ye think?" Celt remarked. "After surviving all he survived…"

The Master Sergeant had died barely a week after we returned from the Ark. He'd been wounded by shrapnel during the battle, sure, but he had been expected to fully recover. Ultimately, the doctors blamed the sudden, unexpected death on clogged arteries.

I didn't really believe it. His death could be blamed on the shrapnel, clogged arteries, a weak heart…they could blame it on anything they wanted. But in the end, I think it was because he was a tired old man who'd outlived his purpose. He'd lost his entire family on Harvest, after all. The war had, in a way, been the only thing giving him a reason to stay alive.

I liked to think that he'd found some measure of peace. He had gone quietly, in his sleep, the doctors told me, so I think that notion was somewhat likely. I was grateful for that; the Master Sergeant, of all people, deserved some peace.

His case was remarkably similar to mine, only I'd never undergone the trauma of losing my family because I'd never really _had_ a family. And I wasn't a man who'd been fighting into his sixties. I was still middle-aged.

Slowly, the crowd of marines present began to filter away into the pelicans, which were ferrying us between here and Camp Victory.

As the crowd dispersed, I was able to spot a familiar figure up towards the Memorial. My eyebrows shot up my forehead in surprise at seeing this individual again. I excused myself and jogged over towards the erect pelican wing, heading towards this person.

"I see you managed to survive, Tyrone," I said to the SPARTAN-III commando, slowing down to walk up alongside him as he stared up at the pictures on the monument.

The SPARTAN-III glanced over at me in puzzlement, but his confusion melted away when he recognized me. I think my scar made me an easy person to remember.

"A surprise for the both of us," Tyrone-G083 gave me a single nod. I could see just by a single glance that he had changed. Some of the old, fiery charisma that I'd seen in him back in Kiev was now gone. He definitely hadn't gotten through this last battle unscathed. "I'm still trying to figure out if it's a pleasant surprise, though."

"You and me both," I murmured. "I never saw you on the Ark…what were you doing?"

"The Brutes had a concentration of AA emplacements not far away from the three towers," the SPARTAN-III replied. "Would've torn that Elite carrier a new asshole if it tried to advance on the Citadel, so we had to take those AA guns out before your force took down the towers. We ended up storming a beachhead in order to get to those guns…most of the pictures you see up there are from that attack."

"And your team?" I asked, casting several glances around us, looking for the other Spartans. "Where are the others?"

Tyrone gave a sad, mirthless half-smile. "Sam and Alex should be back any second; they're talking about…uh…issues. Robin and Em are up there," he nodded to the Memorial.

I actually looked for them on the platform for a second before I realized what Tyrone meant. "Before Reach, I was part of a seven-man squad…now there are only three of us left," I said to him. "I know how it feels to lose those closest to you. I'm sorry about your teammates."

"Me too," Tyrone sighed. "You're gonna hear all kinds of sob stories from this war, but I gotta tell ya…ain't nothin' worse than outliving the people you're s'posed to be leading. Ain't nothin' worse than that; I don't care what anyone else says."

I heard someone clear their throat behind us. I turned around and came face to face with Alex-G004 and Samantha-G113, the other two surviving members of Team Rapier. They were holding hands.

"Bad time?" Alex asked.

"It'll be a while before there's a _good_ time," Tyrone shrugged. He then exchanged a quick glance with Sam. "You tell him?"

All Sam gave in reply was a nod. I had no idea what they were talking about, and I got the feeling that they wanted to be alone, so I decided to take my leave. "Not too long ago, someone like you told me that having even one survivor is better than no survivors," I said to the three Spartans, extending a hand to Tyrone in farewell. "That way, someone will still be left to tell the story. Do your teammates proud, alright?"

"Bet on it," Tyrone's sad smile grew into a more real one as he shook my hand.

I shook Alex's hand next. We didn't even say anything to each other; all we did was trade nods. I think that's all we really needed to do. Everything that needed to be said had already _been_ said.

"Aight, let's find us a ride to Australia," Tyrone yawned, gesturing for his teammates to follow.

"You guys go on ahead; I'll catch up in a sec," Sam said to her compatriots.

Tyrone raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but didn't press the issue. "Don't take too long," he said as he walked off, Alex-G004 right behind him.

I tried to shake Sam's hand, but she pushed it away and instead pulled me into a tight embrace. I could tell she was only using a fraction of her strength—she could have snapped my ribcage like it was made out of toothpicks if she wasn't careful. I didn't return the embrace, at first, because of how unexpected it was.

But by the time I came to my senses, she had already pulled away. Both of my eyebrows were about as high as they could reach on my forehead, and my mouth was forming a silent _oh_. "And what, if you don't mind my asking, was that for?" I finally managed to say.

Samantha-G113 smiled—a genuine smile, this time, the light of the sunset reflecting in her green eyes. "Alex told me what you told him…how you were one of the Helljumpers who saved him when he was young."

"Anyone else would have done that, too…" I tried to shrug it off, but she wouldn't let me.

"Maybe that's true," she conceded. "No one would have been able to leave him in that burning house…but not everyone would have been able to get him out of a Covenant-infested city without getting him killed. That takes someone special. You also helped save _my_ life back in Kiev, when that Brute had me by the neck. I think that's the only time my life has been saved by a non-Spartan…"

"I'm sure you would've done the same for me."

Sam laughed—a light, high sound that reminded me of Sophie Devereux's chuckle. "You know, you're a pretty good guy…for a Helljumper," she added coyly, turning away and starting to walk off to rejoin her teammates. "Goodbye, Sergeant Garris."

Celt asked me where the hell I'd been when I clambered into our pelican, but I told him I just needed a moment to pay my final respects, not really wanting to go into detail about what had just transpired. For some reason, it was something I just wanted to keep to myself.

"Suit yourself," the Irishman shrugged.

Our pelican took off, soaring up into the sky over the Tsavo region, leaving the burned wasteland far behind.

We reached Camp Victory ten minutes later, and were back in the officer's club within twenty.

Apache, Celt, and I all sat at the same table, facing each other over our glasses of whiskey. We'd convinced the bartender to give us an entire bottle—after we paid for it, of course—because we'd need a lot of it to toast to our comrades.

I raised my glass. Celt and Apache did likewise. "To our friends," I said. "To our squadmates who aren't sitting at this table, right now. To Virgin…Wesley Daniels," I toasted our squad's tech specialist, who had died on Reach during the defense of New Alexandria. He had been shot in the chest with a plasma overcharge when the Brutes broke through the lines.

We clinked our glasses together and drank. Once we were finished, we passed the bottle around and refilled.

"To Pyro…Lucullus Jackson," Celt toasted our squad's _de facto_ heavy weapons man. The burly African-American had died on Halo, felled by plasmafire during the Elites' raid on Alpha Base.

We drank and refilled.

Apache took the next one. "To Cajun…Virgil Buford," the Native American toasted our squad's demolitions expert. The foul-mouthed Louisianan had died in Voi. Overwhelmed by Flood infection forms and on the verge of being turned into a combat form, he had sacrificed himself with C-12 explosives to take out a Flood tank form that was about to rampage through our retreat.

We drank and refilled once more. I decided to finish us up. "And to the Sarge…John Carrol," I toasted our squad leader, who had survived the war and died in peace. We had both been there for the beginning…but he had lost his entire family on Harvest. He'd had it even worse than me. I never talked about or even mentioned Harvest around him, because the memories it brought up were too painful.

After we finished that last toast, we still had enough whiskey left for one more go, so I decided to throw in an extra one. "And to those of us who _are_ sitting at the table right now…to those of us who'll be able to tell the world about those who are gone. To Patrick O'Shea, James Eyota, and Albert Garris," I toasted the three of us, the living members of the squad, and we drank one last time.

"We were one hell of a squad, weren't we?" Apache mused.

"Aye, 'pach," Celt chuckled. "That we were."

The three of us turned in for the night, drifting off to sleep rather quickly from the alcohol. My dreams were discombobulated, and when I was roused early the next morning, I quickly forgot what they had been.

I helped raise the flag in the morning after Reveille—it was part of the routine of every military base. After the flag-raising, I was able to go to breakfast in the mess hall and get something solid in my stomach, which helped stave off my mild hangover.

It was when I was on my way out of the mess hall that a young HQ staffer pulled me aside. "You're Sergeant Major Garris, right?" the staffer asked.

"Yeah, that's me," I nodded.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that. A few days after we got back from the Ark, General Eckhart had personally visited me and awarded me the Colonial Cross for my actions during the Battle of the Ark. I was then awarded the Medal of Honor for the defense of 'Garris's House' during the Siege of Kiev—partly for the defense of the house itself, and partly for the fact that I'd managed to get all of the surviving men and women under my impromptu command safely back to UNSC-held territory.

Then, for all my troubles, he promoted me to Sergeant Major, which was the second-highest rank that could be held by a member of the enlisted personnel.

But I was getting discharged in a month; a change in pay grade wasn't exactly the first thing on my mind. But anyway, back to the HQ staffer.

"I have something for you from one Colonel Athos Patrikos, all the way from Sydney," the man told me. "I just need your thumbprint, and then you're good to go," he held out his datapad.

I pressed my thumb to the green square, and it flashed white. The staffer peered at the results and gave a single nod, satisfied that I was who I said I was. He then handed me a folded piece of paper before sketching a salute and going off on his merry way.

I took the paper back to my barracks before unfolding and reading it, skimming through the sender and recipient information a the top and reading the actual body of the message.

_I'd been hoping to get this to you sooner, Sergeant, but I'm afraid I have been extremely busy as of late. The Battle of Earth may be over, but it will be a long time until it is a thing of the past. There is no shortage of wounded; I was running the medical front in Kiev until mid-January, and from there it was straight to Nairobi to care for those wounded at Voi, and then to Sydney to care for the seriously wounded personnel returning from the Ark. What you asked of me required free time, which I did not have until recently._

_But enough rambling; let us get to the heart of the matter._

_I was able to do what you asked. I ran a DNA test on those two strands of hair you gave to me before the assault on the Moskovskyi Bridge, and—sure enough—they were a match._

_I do not know what this means, if it is good news or bad news. If it is good news, than wonderful; if it is bad news, than you have my apologies. Are you ever going to tell me what this meant? Do not feel as though…_

I'd stopped reading by that point.

I…uh…I really didn't know what I was feeling right now. I remembered back in Kiev when Sam was talking about her early childhood, how she never knew her real parents, how they were marines, how she ended up on Emerald Cove…all those coincidences lining up… I remember this possibility occurring to me at the time, but it had seemed ridiculous.

Even so… I'd taken one of her hairs and one of my own, and I'd given them to Doc Patrikos, thinking _why the hell not?_

And now here I was, looking at the results… Having a wild theory was one thing, but having it proven _true_ was a whole 'nother ballpark of fucking insane…

I have a daughter.

My face felt odd after a few seconds. When I touched it, my fingertips came away wet. I realized that I was crying.

Celt noticed me from the adjacent cot, and he propped himself up on his elbow, regarding me with some measure of concern. "Somethin' wrong, Scar?" he asked.

At first I felt really, really weird on the inside…but I quickly realized that those weird feelings were emotions. I was feeling real emotions. Joy. Happiness. Shock. Excitement. Regret. Sorrow. Things I hadn't truly felt since Sophie Devereux's death…things I now felt once more upon the revelation that part of the woman I loved was still alive.

"No, Celt, no," I shook my head, wiping my eyes and giving a genuinely warm, lopsided grin. "I think everything's perfectly alright."

* * *

**February 7, 2554 (Military Calendar) \ (One Year Later)  
****Earth, Sol System**

Ignacio's Pizzeria was, without a doubt, the best pizza joint in the small town of Riverside,New York. It wasn't expensive, and it was located in the busiest part of town, so it had many regular customers, and many more frequent ones.

I'd only been there a few times because I'd preferred living in solitude this past year, but I'd been starting to get out of my house more and more these last few weeks. Riverside one of those small towns where everybody pretty much knew everybody…and so, when a veteran of the Great War moved in one day, gossip had been like a wildfire in a dead forest.

Many of the residents had made attempts to socialize with me—all of which had been politely rebuffed. I'd come here to get away from my war experiences, not to relive them by telling them to every curious civilian who wanted to know what it was like to see a glassing in progress, or how hard it was to kill an Elite, or how I managed to make it off Reach alive.

The questions would have gone on and on, but I stayed in my house, rarely ever coming out, until the initial buzz gradually lessened, and general interest in me subsided.

Riverside's interest in me was not gone, though…but it was no longer at fever pitch. I can go out and walk the streets now without having someone thank me every two seconds.

I mean, yeah, it's good that they were grateful for my sacrifices, and everything…but come on! The constant barrage of gratitude gets old after the twentieth or thirtieth straight day!

But again, that was no longer really an issue. I guess the people were finally beginning to realize that all I wanted was a quiet life. I know, you're thinking that maybe I should have gotten a cottage deep in the mountains; no one would ever bother me there.

But you see, I didn't want total seclusion. I needed some measure of life and activity surrounding me…otherwise I'd have nothing for company but my thoughts. And my own thoughts were the _last_ thing I wanted for company.

Anyway, three days ago I'd been contacted by a writer and former war correspondent from New York City named Bill Collins who'd heard stories about me and offered to help me write a book. An autobiography, I guess…or a memoir…I don't know; I'm no literary whizz. It was one of those.

I'd actually turned him down, at first…but then I'd remembered the last thing the Master Chief had ever said to me, and I changed my mind.

I was a survivor. I had a story, and I intended to tell it.

So I offered to meet the writer for lunch, and Ignacio's Pizzeria seemed like the most logical place to meet. It was around noon, so the pizzeria was still pretty quiet. The influx of hungry customers began around four to five-ish, when the majority of Riverside's citizens got off work on the weekdays.

"Alright…so I don't actually have to do any _writing?_" I asked Mr. Collins. "Because I want to tell this story, and all…but I can't really see myself typing away at a computer for over a year."

Bill Collins gave a hearty chuckle at that. "I would caution against becoming a writer, then, Mister Garris," he said. As he spoke, he pulled a small, rectangular device out of his satchel. "But yes, you are correct. This is Echo, my voice-activated recording device. All you have to do is tell your story into Echo, and I'll handle the actual writing. Of course, when that happens, you'll be able to keep an eye on my progress so that I don't mangle anything."

I arched an eyebrow. "All I have to do is talk?"

"All you have to do is talk."

"Okay…that doesn't sound so bad, then."

"Do you have a title in mind?" Collins asked me. "I think it's always better to know what your story will be called before you start telling it; something that can basically sum the whole thing up in just a couple words."

I was silent for a moment, considering the writer's advice, before grinning and saying, "Yeah, I have something good in mind."

"As long as _you_ know it," Bill Collins nodded. He then pushed Echo forward and activated it. "We can start whenever you like."

"I…well, I wouldn't even know where to begin," I started to say, but the writer held up a hand, quelling me, turning Echo off for the moment.

"How you start a story is one of the most important parts. If the beginning doesn't grip a reader, the reader won't bother to hang in there until the end," Mr. Collins declared. "What would you consider to be the first major event in your life—relating to the story you want to tell, of course."

That was an easy one. "When I joined the Harvest Militia," I answered without a moment's hesitation.

"Yes, yes, that's a very good place to start," Bill Collins nodded several times. He then turned Echo back on. "Why don't you start from your first day of training?"

"Alright…" I took a moment to clear my throat and collect my thoughts. I then started to speak. "_It had been a hot day. Nothing new, really; _every_ day was a hot day on Harvest. There really wasn't much of a winter, there—Harvest was only a third the size of Earth and most of the other colonies; as such, it didn't have any clearly defined seasons. The result was a perpetual warm, moist climate. The 'winter ' felt like early autumn, autumn and spring both felt like summer, and summer felt like Satan's oven._

_Right then, it felt like Satan's oven. Even though the Earth-based UNSC calendar said it was late December, on Harvest it was in the middle of summer—the height of the growing season._

_A fly buzzed through one of the bus's open windows and lighted atop the back of my neck…_

* * *

**END OF SECTION VII**


	101. Epilogue

**_Author's Note_**

_I...uh...wow. Just wow. That's basically all that's been going through my mind, these past few days._

_When I first started writing this, I'd no idea that I would be writing a 100-chapter story... I mean, fuck; I'd just come off writing a 70-chapter story, and I'd thought _that_ was bad! But I can honestly say that I am truly happy with how everything turned out. I think my earlier stories were more prototypes—transitioning from shit writing to (apparently) good writing._

_I mean, sometimes I go back and read parts of Spartans of Gamma Company...and there are parts of that story that just make me cringe! And then I'd read through parts of Survivors, which had a lot of slow sections and a lot of things that were just plain _bad_...as well as some review whoring, early on. That made me cringe even more._

_But this story, I feel, was different. I'll always love my Team Rapier characters, but I think Alley Garris ended up striking closer to the heart than Alex-G004 ever could. There was something liberating about writing from the perspective of a normal guy. I mean, yeah, he had more luck than fucking Fortuna, but beyond that...he's just a man. And I also was leery about doing first person for the whole time...but somehow I pulled that off, too. I think it helps being an actor—I'm used to immersing myself in different personalities to become a character in a play._

_It'll be weird without having anymore chapters of this to write...it had become a part of daily life, for me. But at the same time, I'm glad I was able to wrap it up in a dignifying manner—I think the story itself and its characters deserved nothing less._

_Thank you all so much for reading my work and giving me almost constant feedback. I do not write on here for reviews; I write for personal pleasure...but I doubt this story would have turned out nearly as well without the constant positive feedback. Thank you again, and I wish you all well in your writing endeavors._

_I'll be going to college in a couple months, so if I do continue writing in the future, I'm afraid updates probably won't come at the rate they've always come in the past. But I'm getting well ahead of myself, here... I can't really promise anything Halo-related in the near-future because...well, I'm kind of burned out on Halo, right now. Not saying I'll never come back to it, but it won't be like before where I finished a Halo story and had a new one started within the next week._

_I'm still writing on this website, though. If you're ever bored, check out some of my other work. I have two in-progress stories set in the Left 4 Dead and Runescape universes that I've been working on for a while. I haven't updated either of them lately because I've been on a writing splurge for this story, but now that this story is done, I can focus on them once more. And before you're turned off by the fact that one of the stories is a Runescape story, read it before you judge! It's nothing like the game!_

_I hope all of you have a fantastic summer, because I sure as fuck will! Graduation parties are where it's at!_

_Well, I think this Author's Note has gone on long enough; just read the goddamn epilogue._

_-TheAmateur_

* * *

Epilogue

"Thirty second break!" the coach spoke loudly, but not quite at the point of shouting. Loud enough for all the members of his middle school summer track team to clearly hear him. "Get some water down your gullets, boys! I will not have my team die of heat exhaustion until we crush Elbridge at next week's meet!"

The twenty or so 11-14 year olds quickly jogged over to the water table, grabbing their water bottles and chugging down H2O for a few seconds until the coach chirped his whistle again.

Coach Hadley and Coach Aimes—the two assistant coaches—took the short-distance sprinters and the relay runners to the other side of the track. Once they were situated, they got to work having the runners stretch, exercise, and practice their hundred-meter dashes, working on constantly tightening up their sprinting times.

The head coach got back to work with the 1500-meter group. They were basically the milers—1500 meters was longer than a mile, but it was one of the most common lengths for middle-distance runs.

"Alright, you boys have worked hard, today, so I'll go easy on you," the coach said. "Four laps, on my whistle, then we'll finish up for the day. Alright, let's go! I want toes on the starting line!"

The six middle-schoolers who were competing in the 1500-meter run all lined up at the white start line. The coach blew his whistle twice, and the six pre-teens hunkered down into their ready positions. The moment their coach blew his whistle a third time, they all set off, sprinting forward.

The coach scratched his beard and swatted at a fly that tried to buzz into his ear. He eyed each of the six kids as they ran around the length of the track. When they passed the start line and completed their first lap, the coach joined them, running alongside them on the grass just inside of the track's circle.

"Pick your feet up, Westfield!" the coach hollered over to the tallest kid in the group. Nigel Westfield had always had that problem for as long as the coach could remember—he had long legs, perfect for taking longer strides, but he lost speed because he tended to drag his feet.

The others were all doing exceptionally well. The coach wasn't even able to keep up with the leading runner—a shorter, fair-haired boy of eleven years. He was new to Riverside Middle, but was quickly proving to be the fastest runner the school district's track program had ever seen.

"Don't burn yourself out, Ambrose!" the coach called out to the boy, but Ambrose didn't seem to hear. If anything, the kid started running even _faster_. He was on his fourth and final lap by the time most of the others were only just beginning their third.

The coach muttered under his breath. He'd warned the boy to stop pulling those kinds of stunts, but his warnings seemed to be falling on deaf ears. He'd have to have a chat with Ambrose after practice was over.

Once everyone finished their four laps, the coach gave each of them their times. "Westfield: six-twenty-one. Keep working on it; someone with long legs like you should be able to cut that time down by at least half a minute. And finally, last but not least, Ambrose: four-thirty-two."

"Fucking gazelle…" one of the other boys muttered.

"Language, Gleeson," the coach growled. "You can't say _fuck_ until you're thirteen."

"Yes, Coach Garris," Gleeson nodded sullenly.

The coach waited for his assistants to finish with the rest of the team before ordering everyone onto the track for a cool-down run. After a single lap, he dismissed the team. "I'll see every one of you Saturday afternoon. Summer of 2564, boys! It's a new year…let's keep up the tradition of crushing Elbridge Prep, alright?"

The team dispersed, leaving the track and heading up the hill to the school. Coach Hadley unlocked the gym doors and let everyone inside.

Garris, the head coach, pulled Ambrose aside before he could enter, though. "Go ahead, Hadley, I'll be with you in a sec," the red-haired, older man nodded to his colleague.

Coach Hadley propped the door open with a doorstop and headed inside, not wanting to spend a moment longer in the sweltering August heat. Garris, the head coach, didn't mind the heat nearly as much. He'd spent the earlier years of his life on Harvest, which had summers that made the Sahara Desert feel like room temperature.

August in upstate New York wasn't really much of a comparison.

"Alright, Robin, I think you already know why I've pulled you aside," Garris sighed. "We've talked about this, already. You have to restrain yourself, out there. If you want to run faster than a cheetah in the woods behind your house, then knock yourself out; but _not_ in public."

"But I'm not even running at half my speed," Robin started to complain, but the older man silenced him with a sharp glare.

"Then run at a _quarter_ of your normal speed; I don't care what you have to do," Garris declared. "But if people start noticing how unnaturally fast you can run, they'll start asking questions…and that's the last thing your parents need, right now."

"Fine…" the boy grumbled. "I'll _jog_ around the track, then, and get _second_ place. It's so not fair, though…"

"Of course it isn't fair," Garris chuckled, straightening up and holding the door open for his student. "You're the only member of the team with genetic augmentations inherited from parents who happened to be supersoldiers during the Great War. And unless you want to spend the rest of your life in a testing facility, you'd do well to keep on the down-low."

"Yeah, yeah, my mom and dad tell me the same stupid thing every day," the boy waved his the older man off.

"Then _listen_ to them," Garris had to restrain himself from shouting in the kid's face. "There are people out there, ruthless people…and if they ever find out about who you really are, they'll take you away. Your family, your friends, your home…you'll never see any of them again. Do you want that?"

"No…"

"Then stop running like a superhuman and start running like an extremely talented middle-schooler," Garris advised him. "Your parents are risking enough by allowing you to run track in the first place. Don't make them regret it."

"Alright, alright…" Robin held up his hands in mock surrender. "I'll slow down. _Sheesh_…"

Coach Garris wasn't quite sure if he'd gotten through to the boy, but he knew he'd lose him completely if he pressed any further. "Alright, then. Go get changed. Your parents will be waiting out front."

Garris headed to his office in the athletic wing of the middle school, picking up his wallet and car keys before locking up. The aging man headed through the halls of the Riverside Middle School until he found himself in the main lobby. The parents of the track team members were all parked outside in their respective vehicles, waiting for their kids to arrive.

The older man headed over to one of the smaller cars towards the back of the line, rapping on the window.

The passenger side window was lowered, revealing a woman in her mid-twenties with red hair and bright, green eyes. Sitting in the driver's seat was a slightly shorter man of the same age, with short, blondish hair, and piercing, electric-blue eyes.

"Gunnery Sergeant!" the blue-eyed man exclaimed in surprise and delight, extending his hand to the older man, reaching over his wife.

Garris accepted the handshake, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Mister Ambrose, how many times do I have to remind you that I retired a Sergeant Major?"

The blue-eyed man shrugged. "You'll always be a Gunnery Sergeant to me."

"And you'll always be Alex-G004 to me—forget the fake last name," Garris chuckled. The older man then adopted a more serious tone as he got down to business. "Look, your son was starting to get ahead of himself again during practice, today."

The red-haired woman gave a weary sigh, rubbing the curve of her nose. "How many times do we have to talk to him about this?" she murmured. "If ONI ever finds out about him…"

"They _won't,_" Garris assured her. "I've told you before, my friend in ONI altered both of your files. As far as they know, you perished on the Ark. But if your son keeps showing off in public, people are going to start asking questions. Hell, people already talk about how fast he is on the track…he's walking a very fine line, here. Just see if you can get him to tone it down, alright?"

"Thanks for telling us, Gunny," Alex exchanged another light handshake with his friend.

"For the last time, you can stop calling me Gunny," Garris chuckled as he backed away from the Ambroses' car. "I'm fucking retired, alright?"

"Yeah, bullshit!" Mr. Ambrose shot back as he rolled up his wife's window. "Once a Helljumper, _always_ a Helljumper!"

"Take care of yourselves!" Garris waved goodbye as the window closed, walking away down the sidewalk that surrounded most of the school. He headed down from the front entrance a little ways and crossed the traffic lane, walking over into the faculty lot, where his rust-red pickup truck was parked.

The middle-aged, former-ODST climbed into his truck and started it, revving the engine just a tad before throwing it into gear and backing out of his parking space. It took a minute to get through the traffic lane and onto the main road that passed by Riverside Middle School., and it took an additional ten minutes for him to reach his home on Donegal Lane, which was located in the quiet suburbs south of the town proper.

The older man pulled into his driveway, into his garage, and killed the pickup's engine. He swung himself out of the driver's seat and closed the garage door before heading into his home.

Garris grabbed the necessary ingredients from his fridge and pantry, and ended up making himself a stir fry for dinner. After he was finished, he grabbed a can of beer from the fridge and plopped down onto the couch, flipping through the news and seeing if there was anything good on the tube.

The TV was a bust—just the same old shit about efforts to terraform Reach, the new joint Human-Sangheili colonies, etc. etc. It had been eleven years since the war ended, and life still had yet to completely return to normal…but Garris himself had finally managed to carve out a normal routine for himself, and he didn't like to be troubled with outside issues like the ones discussed on the news.

The older man finished his beer and crumpled the can, throwing it in the recycling. With nothing else useful to do for the rest of the evening, he decided to go out for a short run. That 'short run', however, ended up taking him almost around the entire town—he didn't get back home until nearly nine o'clock at night.

Garris got out of his sweaty clothes and took a quick shower before changing into his pajamas—a white Helljumper T-shirt and boxer shorts.

After brushing his teeth and taking a sleeping pill, Garris headed to his bedroom. He lay in bed awake, waiting for the sleeping pill's effects to take hold, but it seemed to be taking a lot longer tonight than it usually did.

The former-Helljumper decided to pass the time by looking at the pictures, again.

There was a shelf lining the wall next to Garris's bed full of pictures of his old comrades from the Great War. Tonight, Garris focused on the ones on the middle shelf—the most important ones.

There was a picture of Patrick O'Shea, one of Garris's old squadmates from his days as a Helljumper, along with his wife, Aileen. The picture had been taken at their wedding, nine years ago.

It had been a funny story, really; the two of them had met in an officer's club the day we got back from the Ark. Both of them had been drunk out of their minds, and what was originally intended to be a one-night-stand turned into a three-month-stand…until Aileen had twins, prompting her and O'Shea to get married.

They'd managed to start loving each other last Garris had checked, though, and were still living in Belfast. Garris still visited them once in a while.

Garris's other surviving squadmate, James Eyota, was also in that picture. Eyota had ended up moving out to one of our new joint colonies with the Sangheili, and Garris had never heard from him again. Garris had resolved to track him down, one of these days…

But the picture the former Helljumper was looking at was an image of two of his oldest friends from the war—Matthew Dempsey, who had fought in the Harvest Militia with him in the very beginning of the war, and Sophie Devereux…the woman he would have married and had a family with, had she not died on Alpha Halo.

"I wish you could see her today, Soph…" the older man murmured to the picture of his deceased lover. "She's got your eyes, you know. She has my hair, too…but definitely your eyes."

Garris spoke of his daughter. Yes, he had a daughter—it was, in fact, Samantha Ambrose, the red-haired woman in that car. Garris had been acquainted with the Ambroses ever since they'd moved to Riverside ten years ago—he'd fought alongside Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose during the Battle of Kiev. They'd been teenaged Spartan supersoldiers, at the time.

Garris had never told Samantha Ambrose about this, however. Years ago, he'd been on the verge several times…but, ultimately, he decided against it. She'd already grown up with a family of her own—her Spartan teammates. Garris knew that if he suddenly announced that he was actually her father…well, things would get slightly weird.

The former Helljumper didn't mind withholding the knowledge, though. He counted himself lucky that he had a daughter at all, and even luckier that he was able to live right near her…even if she would never know it.

Before he knew it, Garris was falling asleep. He shut off the lights and hit the fan before crawling under a single sheet. One sheet was all he needed in this heat. Within another minute or two, he was sound asleep.

The next day, Garris woke up a precisely six o'clock and did his morning run. He then went through the rest of his morning routine—breakfast, morning exercises, quick shower, an hour of reading, a walk through the woods behind the house, lunch…and then, for the afternoon, he headed into town.

Sometimes he ate lunch at Ignacio's Pizzeria—that place had steadily grown on him, over the years. He'd jog through the park and relax on the benches for a little while, go for a swim in the local pool…he'd find something else to occupy the rest of the afternoon until heading to town's Irish pub for the night.

Garris wasn't Irish to his knowledge, but he'd earned himself a place with the pub's regulars after proving himself time after time again in the frequent drinking contests. Nearly thirty years of constant warfare had taught the former Helljumper how to hold his liquor.

Garris would then return home and go on a nighttime run around his neighborhood—he may still be a heavy alcoholic, but was just about the furthest thing from a slob. Then he'd sometimes make himself dinner if he didn't eat at the pub, flip through the TV channels, shower once more, and then head to bed.

There was something strangely comforting about the whole idea of the routine. Garris believed it was because if he stuck to the routine and didn't try to change it all that often, it would take his mind off of his past, which had been an extremely difficult thing for him to do in the past.

Friday morning, however, was different. Garris woke up at six o'clock and went for his morning run. After he got back and poured himself a bowl of cereal, however, someone shattered the sanctity of his routine by knocking on his door. The former Helljumper frowned when he heard the noise—he rarely ever had visitors in his home.

Garris set down his spoon and swallowed the ceareal he'd been chewing, rising from his table and making his way over to the door. He opened it and came face to face with a policeman with whom he was familiar.

"Detective Waters?" Garris opened his door the rest of the way. "Something I can help you with?"

"Can you step outside for a moment, Mister Garris?" the police detective asked the former Helljumper. Garris complied, stepping out onto the front porch and closing the door behind him. Waters led the older man down across the front yard and onto the sidewalk.

The passenger side door of Waters's police cruiser opened, and a tall, thin, pale-faced man emerged, dressed in a generic black suit.

Garris recognized the man almost immediately. "Commander Angiers?"

The pale man smiled. "It's _Captain_ Angiers, now. Good to see you again, Sergeant Major."

"Please don't take this as simple rudeness…but what the hell are you doing here?"

"Something…troubling has happened several days ago," the pale man, Angiers replied, climbing back into the police car and inviting Garris to do likewise. "I took the case and covered most of it up before the rest of ONI could find out about it…after all, I am the one who altered the files on those two SPARTAN-IIIs, for you. If ONI found out about them, it would be my head on a platter…"

"You still haven't answered my question," Garris persisted. "Where are we going?"

Detective Waters climbed into the driver's seat and belted himself in, starting the engine and pulling out into the street.

"We will be going to Clearwater, Florida. An old friend is waiting for us, there," Captain Angiers turned away from Garris and settled back into his seat, facing forward as Water started to pick up speed. "We're taking a little trip, Sergeant Major; I'm afraid Robin Ambrose has been kidnapped."

* * *

**_THE END_**


End file.
